The Eternal Sunshine of Cody Martin's Mind
by the-lovely-anomaly
Summary: Cody Martin wakes up one morning to discover he's lost the most valuable thing he's ever had...and that he might not be who he thought he was. As he searches for answers in a chaotic world, he finds that sometimes the best place to look is within. DISCONTINUED.
1. Erasure

**I know this story isn't listed on my profile page as a possible fan fic, but I couldn't help myself. I suddenly had this idea—this strange, spontaneous idea—and I just had to go with it.**

**I should give you all fair warning: this story is going to be a little hard to follow at times, but believe me, by the end everything will make sense. You'll just have to be patient.**

**And another thing: in this story, Cody is still living in Boston, but he's living near the coast. Enjoy! And feel free to review!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**The Suite Life**_** series. **

Cody Martin woke up one morning with a splitting headache and a peculiar feeling that he had forgotten something important. At first, he thought maybe he was suffering from amnesia. How else could he explain such a bad case of memory loss? But then he figured he couldn't be because amnesiacs couldn't remember who they were, and he knew full well that he was Cody Martin.

When he sat up in bed, he had to clench his teeth to withhold a powerful scream that threatened to escape him; his head hurt _so _badly. _Maybe I'm hung over_, he thought. He didn't drink much, but he was capable of going overboard now and then. It had happened once at a college party, and then once again when he'd been having a bad day and decided to make it better by downing some Vodka (two memories he constantly tried to keep in the back of his mind). But he didn't know if he was hung over or not because, strangely, he couldn't remember anything he'd done the day before.

He couldn't even remember what day it was.

He looked out the window of his room. The day was overcast. The clouds were a range of gray and black and they appeared to jump out at him from a dark blue abyss that was the sky. At first, Cody thought maybe it was evening instead of morning, but when he glanced at the digital clock beside his bed, the time shown to be 8:36 a.m. Slowly, he stood up and went over to the window. He glanced down and saw that the road below his apartment building (at least he knew _where_ he was) was noticeably wet. It had rained last night apparently.

Cody opened the window to get a breath of fresh air, thinking maybe that would help clear his head. The smell of ozone permeated the air, mixed with the stench of worn tires and gasoline. He spotted two girls turning a corner and walking past his apartment building. One was wearing a black and white windbreaker and had on white gloves, and the other was wearing a green blouse beneath a tan jacket and was holding up an umbrella over the both of them. It was kind of strange considering it wasn't raining at the moment, but some people were just cautious. The girls were talking with each other. Cody could faintly hear their voices over the noise of moving cars in the distance. A little further down the street, he saw a boy in a hoody and sweatpants sitting on a bench right outside a diner, using the diner's overhanging roof as protection from any possible rain, clutching what looked like a coffee cup in one hand and a cell phone in the other. It appeared that he was texting.

Cody knew this place almost like the back of his hand now. He'd moved into this apartment nearly a year ago. It wasn't very nice, but that didn't matter because it was only supposed to be temporary—just until he got financially situated and could get himself a better one. He remembered the first day he came there. The landlord, who Cody had developed somewhat of a friendship with, had insisted on helping him unpack his belongings on move-in day. Cody never forgot the look on his face when he saw only two bags full of clothes, movies, and video games (things boys typically found necessary to bring when moving to a new place), but five bags full of books, portfolios, bottles of hand sanitizer, moisturizer, and vitamins (as well as a box with an advanced telescope inside). He knew from then on that Cody was different. In all honesty, that was part of the reason why he liked him so well; he didn't really understand him, but he respected him because he wasn't like the average punk who'd trash the place and blare heavy metal until all hours of the night.

_Well, _thought Cody, _it's not as bad as it could have been. I still have my long-term memory._

Once he realized that fresh air wasn't going to do much good, he closed the window. There was a bathroom attached to his room. He went in and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. His face was unhealthily pale and there were reddish circles under his eyes that gave him a corpse appearance. Also, his hair was matted. That wasn't like him. None of this was like him. Cody was always clean and well kept. This didn't make any sense.

The mirror was also the door to his bathroom cabinet. He rummaged through it until he found some Tylenol to take care of his headache. He figured two tablets should do the trick, so he popped them into his mouth and forced them down with some water from the sink. He desperately needed a shower. His whole body felt grimy and weak—totally wasted—and hot water had never failed at making him feel better. So Cody stripped out of his clothes (which he didn't even notice before were gray pajamas he knew he did not own) and got into the tub. As the water pattered down on his skin, his thoughts began to wander. _What the hell is going on_? _Why do I look like I've just risen from the dead_? _What happened last night_? _And why…oh God, why…do I feel like I've just forgotten something crucial_?

He stayed in the shower far longer than he probably should have. But he couldn't help it. The water felt so good. So relaxing. Despite the fact that he just woke up, he felt like he hadn't slept in a week. He felt drained. His body was frail. His head was heavy. For all he knew, he could topple over at any given moment.

_Jesus, what is wrong with me_?

When he finally stepped out of the tub, he was wrinkled like a prune but he felt more awake. His headache was beginning to subside and he was more alert. Before going back to his bedroom to put some clothes on, he took another glance at himself in the mirror. He grimaced at his reflection. He still looked like shit. The red circles below his eyes were more pronounced and his skin was so pale. If he were someone else looking at him, he would have sworn that he was diseased.

_Wait, is that it_? _Am I sick_?

Maybe he was. It certainly was possible. Germs had always loved Cody. That was why, all throughout his childhood and adolescence, he had treated sanitation as though it were a religion. Gently, Cody touched his fingers to the space under his eyes, pressing on the red-shaded skin. It didn't hurt. There wasn't any pain at all. _Hmm…maybe they'll go away in an hour or so. Maybe a few hours. I guess I should just wait it out. _

After rummaging through his dresser for a good five minutes, he pulled out a white, long-sleeved, button-up shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans. There was a black jacket hanging from a hook in his bedroom door and he grabbed that as well. Lastly, he put on a pair of socks and his old, dirty tennis shoes, which were sitting right next to the dresser, on a mat.

He was going to go outside. His plan was to take a walk.

As he was headed out the door, however, he saw his cell phone lying on the top of his dresser…which was not where he usually kept it. He _never _kept his cell phone out in the open, where anyone could find it. He was always more cautious about stuff like that. Several people even thought he was paranoid.

"Well, that's interesting," Cody said to himself as he reached over and picked it up. By instinct, he turned it on. A picture of his ex-girlfriend, Bailey Pickett, smiling cutely shown on the screen. He'd kept it there because he still thought it was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. He only had one bar left, but he didn't want to charge the battery just yet. He suddenly wanted to make a call.

His mother was second on his list of contacts, which also—strangely enough—included his doctor, his landlord, a couple of his closest friends, his father, and his boss at work. When he gazed down at all the names, he couldn't help but feel as though a name was missing—a name that had been there before. He didn't know why that was, but he couldn't deny the feeling. It was an eerie sensation.

Cody shook his head. _My brain's gone wonky. I _must've_ gotten drunk last night. There's no other explanation. _

He clicked "Mom" on the list and put the phone to the side of his face. It started ringing.

It rang once.

It rang twice.

It rang three times.

Four times.

"Come on, Mom," Cody muttered irritably. "Pick up."

The answering machine came on. His mother's voice told him she wasn't in at the moment and to leave a message, promising to get back to him soon. Cody hit the "END" button; he wasn't going to leave a message. He needed to talk to _her_. Well, he needed to talk to _anyone_. And more importantly, he needed them to talk to him.

Should he call someone else? Bailey? _I think so,_ Cody decided._ She'll probably think I've gone crazy, but at least I can hear her speak._

He hit Bailey's name on the contact list and put the phone back to the side of his face. He waited while hers rang.

After the third ring, she picked up. "Hey Cody." Of course, she knew it was him. Caller ID was a big help. It was so great to hear her voice. Her actual voice, rather than a recording.

"Hey Bailey," he said. "Look…um…I'm sorry if you're busy or something, but…but I…I was wondering…would you maybe meet me somewhere today? I kind of need to talk to you." He could have slapped himself. That sounded so lame. He'd fumbled with every word. _Why is it always so hard to talk to your _ex? _She told you she still wanted be your friend. _He wanted to take it back—to make it sound happier. More casual. But it was too late to do that now.

He could hear Bailey sigh on the other end. "Why don't we just talk like this? I don't really feel like going anywhere right now."

Cody took a deep breath. _Okay, think before you talk. _"I understand, but…I want to see you." That was true enough. He'd settle for seeing anyone he knew at this point. "I want to talk to you in person, you know? It's been a while."

Bailey sighed again, deeper. Cody sensed that she thought he wanted something in particular. Why else would he be calling her in the early morning? Most days, he didn't call until the afternoon. If at all. It was crucial to keep it straight that they were just friends now.

"We don't have to do anything," Cody assured her. "Just talk. That's all I want to do. Talk."

Bailey waited a moment before answering. "Okay. I guess so."

Now Cody couldn't help but feel guilty. "You don't have to if you don't want to. It's just…"

"No, no…it's okay. It's fine."

"I'm sorry I bothered you with this."

"It's fine, Cody."

Cody swallowed. For some reason, his stomach was cramping. "Okay, well…where do you want to meet?" His voice shook.

"Er...I guess, at the pier."

"Alright. I'll see you there in—say—ten minutes?"

"Better make it fifteen."

It would take her far less than fifteen minutes to get to the pier. But Cody didn't ask questions. He didn't want to argue. "Okay, see you there."

About two seconds after those words came out of his mouth, Cody's phone went dead. He placed it back on his dresser, and then headed out the door.

…

It was above freezing outside, but just barely. Cody felt the chill rattle his teeth as he made his way down to where his car was parked. It was early October (he couldn't remember which day exactly) and already the cold winds were coming in.

Cody had always hated the cold. When he was a kid, he used to put on anywhere from three to six layers of clothing the second the temperature dropped below 40. He'd been horribly teased for doing that since all those layers made it nearly impossible to walk, but as far as he'd been concerned, staying warm was worth the humiliation.

It wasn't until he reached his car when he suddenly realized he'd forgotten his car keys. He cursed himself under his breath. That was not like him. He was never this forgetful. He was known for constantly being on top of things. Practically anyone who knew him referred to him either as the most—or at least one of the most—intellectual people they'd ever met.

Sure, even intellectuals were capable of forgetting. But forgetting car keys…when they were about to use a car?

_Damn! What is with me today_? _This is just bizarre_!

Right as he was turning to go back for the keys, a man walked up to him.

The man was tall and dark-haired, with a pale complexion, a goatee, and crystal blue eyes that stared Cody down ominously. He wore a gray trench coat, which was somewhat intimidating, and had a domineering way about him that made Cody get the urge to dart away as fast as he could.

Cody tried to keep his cool. There was no use in acting nervous, despite the fact that he was. Perhaps the man just needed assistance with something. "Can I help you?" Cody asked, as casually as he could manage.

For a moment, the man did not reply. He simply continued to scowl. Then, in a deep, low voice, he said, "You're Cody Martin, aren't you?"

_How does he know my name_? Cody's stomach lurched uncomfortably. "Yeah, that's me."

The man's breath was blowing in Cody's face. It stank, and nearly made Cody have to avert his face. "May I ask how you're feeling?"

That was such an odd question to receive from a complete stranger. Cody felt a chill ripple down his spine, and he knew that it wasn't from the cold. _Who is this guy_? _What does he want with me_? "May I ask who wants to know?" he responded.

"My name is Jonathan Conroy. _Reverend_ Jonathan Conroy." The man reached into one of the two front pockets in his coat and pulled out a small, rectangular card that contained fine print on it. He handed it to Cody.

Cody looked at it. At the top was a sketchy-looking icon of an angel and right below it, in bold, black letters were the words "BOSTON METHODIST CHURCH." Reverend Conroy's name was on it as well, along with a Bible text and a phone number. When Cody saw the word "church" he automatically thought this man was a Jehovah's Witness, but then he noticed the word "Methodist" and became confused. Why would a Methodist minister be talking to him? Especially like this—by coming up to him out of the blue. And how on Earth could he have known his name?

_This makes no sense whatsoever. But, then again, what has made sense today_?

"So, Reverend Conroy, why are you talking to me?" Cody questioned. "And how did you know who I was?"

Reverend Conroy shook his head. "That's not important," he replied.

Cody wanted to tell him how suspicious that sounded, but he didn't.

"What _is_ important is what I can do for you. I want to help you, you see. But I can only do that if you let me—if you let us."

"_Us_?" Cody was baffled. "What do you mean 'us'?"

Reverend Conroy pointed to the card. "Our congregation," he said. "We all want to help you find the way."

"The way?" _Okay, this is getting weirder and weirder._

"The way of God, Cody. Our goal is to lead you from provenient grace to sanctifying grace by offering you repentance. We want to save your soul."

Right then, Cody had had enough. He had nothing against anyone's religious beliefs, but he despised it when people went around bothering communities by pushing those beliefs onto others.

"Not to be rude or anything," he snapped in annoyance, "but my soul is none of your business. I'm not even a member of the Methodist church, so I have absolutely no idea what you're doing here talking to me…or how you even know my name. It's creepy. And by the way, I've got somewhere to go. So if you'd excuse me…I really cannot be late."

With that, Cody turned and walked hastily away. When he came back later, with his keys, the man was no longer there.

…

Luckily, Cody was only two minutes late when he met Bailey at the pier. He found her sitting cross-legged at the very edge, looking out at the still water, dressed in a tan sweater and light blue jeans. Her hair was falling elegantly along the sides of her face. She was beautiful.

"Thanks for coming, Bailey," Cody said as he approached her.

Bailey turned to acknowledge him and her face contorted. "You look like shit," she told him.

"Yeah, I know." Cody sat down next to her.

Bailey didn't ask why. She just shifted her attention back to the Atlantic and said, "You're late."

"Just by two minutes," Cody defended himself.

"True, but it's cold out here. Waiting in the cold sucks."

Cody felt a twinge of indignation towards her. He did not understand how she could be complaining about something so minor. _It was only two freaking minutes. No big deal. Why is she being such a cry baby about it_?_ Just because she didn't want to come here doesn't mean she can bitch at me. _He wanted to call her out on it, but didn't. She was obviously in a bad mood.

Cody bit his lip, deciding to just cut to the chase.

"Bailey, listen…" He paused, wondering how he should go about telling her what he'd planned on telling her. "This morning, something weird happened. I woke up and had this strange feeling that I'd forgotten something. Something important."

Bailey looked down, focusing on her shoes. For a long moment, she appeared to be taking this in. Then her eyes shifted toward him and she gave him a look of irritation. "That's what you dragged me here to tell me?" she asked edgily. "That you forgot something?"

"Look, I know it sounds ridiculous. But…it's not like forgetting everyday things. I felt like I'd forgotten something_ crucial_. Something that I should never have forgotten. And I had a splitting headache; I have no idea where it came from. "

Bailey was not convinced that this was anything to worry about. "Are you sure you didn't just go on third drinking spree last night?"

_Of course she had to bring that up. Well, she did swear that she'd never let me live it down. _"Well…I suppose I _could_ have." Cody couldn't deny the possibility. Last night was a mystery to him. "But I don't think so. It wasn't like being hung over. It was like...like something was erased. Just totally wiped from my mind, and I don't know how it happened. It freaked me out. It's _still _freaking me out. It's probably the weirdest feeling I've ever had."

Bailey's eyebrow raised, which was a sign that she had become interested.

"And to top it off, I looked like this." Cody pointed to himself. "I looked like a fuckin' corpse that just rose from the dead. I have no idea what these circles under my eyes are, or how they got there. At first, I thought maybe I was sick. But I don't _feel_ sick. Other than the whole memory loss thing, I feel fine."

Cody gave her a desperate look. He was scared. He didn't want to admit it because he didn't want Bailey thinking him weak, but he was.

And he knew she could tell that he was.

She took a second to think about this, breathing heavily, staring off into the wide open body of water before her, which looked foreboding in the overcast weather.

Finally, she spoke…slowly. "Cody, I want…I need…to ask you a question."

Cody was unsure about this, but he figured he'd go with it. He knew he could trust Bailey. Whether they were a couple or not, he could always trust her. "Um, okay," he said.

"Do you remember the day we broke up?"

_Oh Christ, here we go again_. "How could I forget?" His tone was a bit cross when he answered. "You told me you didn't want anything else to do with me, and then later called me up and begged that we stay friends. And I was masochistic enough to say yes."

Bailey shook her head and growled in frustration. "Well, whatever! Look, that's not what I'm getting at. I'm not trying to bring up the gritty details—"

"Then what _are_ you getting at?" Cody interjected.

"If you don't interrupt me, I'll tell you!"

Cody breathed deep, willing himself to calm down. He'd asked Bailey to come here in the first place so he could confide in her. There wasn't any sense in riling her up. "I'm sorry," he apologized.

"Fine," Bailey said. "What I was getting at was—what do you remember about that day, other than the obvious? What do you remember about _why _we broke up?"

"Bailey, before I say anything," Cody told her straight-forwardly, "I would like to know how that's related to my problem."

"Just answer," Bailey ordered.

Cody gave in. He was totally confused and losing patience, but he figured he'd give her what she wanted. If only to humor her. "Alright, fine. I remember you and me fighting over what our plans were—our plans for the future. You had plan A and I had plan B; you hated plan B and I hated plan A, and it just all fell apart from there. That's what I remember, happy?"

Bailey swallowed, her expression suddenly far away and dismayed as she kept her gaze firmly on the water. "Do you remember the fire?"

_Oh God_. Cody suddenly thought he was going to hurl. That was something he wished with every fiber of his being that he _could_ forget. That was something that disturbed his sleep every night… something that made him tremble and break out into sweats. "Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, I remember the fire."

How could he not? The blinding flames, the black smoke, the screaming, the crying, the flailing arms and staggering legs, the blurred vision—it was going to haunt his mind for the rest of his life. He knew it would. It was engrained into him.

"Do you…do you remember any of the specifics?"

Cody gritted his teeth. _Stop, Bailey_! _Please…please, just stop. _"I remember everything. I remember how, afterward, you and I fought like crazy."

Bailey looked down, examining her shoes again. "Several people died in that fire, Cody. I saw this one kid"—she swallowed again, this time trying to force down a lump in her throat—"holding his dead brother in his arms. It was the most tragic thing I could have ever imagined. The most horrible thing. I'll never be able to forget it, no matter how many times I try to."

"You can't," Cody said matter-of-factly, although he felt like a hypocrite in saying it. "You can't let a memory rule you."

Cody thought for sure that Bailey was going to start sobbing. Even though he didn't have a perfect view of her eyes, he could tell that they were welling. And her voice broke when she said, "But it was just so…horrifying. How could something like that…?"

She couldn't finish her sentence.

Cody rubbed her back. Even after having a spat with her, he couldn't stand to see her cry. "I don't know," he said. "No one knows stuff like that."

Bailey sniffled. Her eyes found his and gazed into them inquisitively. "I could only imagine the pain that poor boy went through, losing his brother."

Cody shrugged. "I wouldn't know," he said softly. "I've never had a brother."

All of a sudden, Bailey slumped over and burst into tears; Cody pulled her into a warm embrace. He held her for a good ten minutes or so before the cold got to him and he felt obligated to say that they should probably leave soon.

The conversation had not gone as he had hoped, but what was he to expect? Bailey hadn't been acting normal for a while. And he could very well say the same for himself.

Bailey wiped her eyes, nodded, and agreed that they should go.

So they went.

As Cody made his way back to his car, the feeling of forgetting something important returned to him.


	2. Beneath the Surface

**This chapter is probably more outlandish than the first. However, I did give fair warning that this story would be hard to follow at times. It's going to get more confusing before things become clear. But just be patient. It'll make sense eventually. :)**

**Something to keep in mind about this story: just as my other one, "Boy, Disrupted" is **about psychology**, this one has a lot to do with politics and science's influence on society—and what the market could get away with if we let it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**The Suite Life **_**series. All the OCs, though, are mine.**

Cody Martin came home with a strong sense of aggravation burning within him. He barged through the door of his apartment, slammed it behind him, and then took a second to lean against it and breathe. _Think, Cody, think. What could I have forgotten? It wasn't an assignment for school, was it? No, it couldn't have been. I've forgotten assignments before and I didn't feel _this _bad. It has to be something else—something more important than that. Could it be…somebody? _Cody shook his head. No. That was nonsensical. How could he forget some_body_? He couldn't. At least, not somebody who was important to him. That was just crazy.

Cody wiped his eyes with his fingers. "What am I going to do?" he muttered to himself. That was the main question now. What was he going to do? Nobody could help him. Everyone would most likely just think he'd gone crazy. He had to help himself. Do something to jog his memory.

_Well, first thing's first. I need to recharge my phone._

He grabbed his cell phone off his dresser and took it over to his living room space, setting it down on a counter top where a coiled charger was laying. He uncoiled it, plugged it into an outlet behind the counter, and hooked it to his cell phone. Then he set it down and walked away.

_Okay, now what? _

And just like that, a sudden thought struck him. His journal. He kept a journal—a diary, of sorts—where he wrote down his thoughts, feelings, and actions every day. He had been keeping one since his teen years, and had started a new one the day he'd moved into his apartment. He could have smacked himself in the head. Why hadn't he thought of that before?

He went into his room and pulled out a plastic box from beneath his bed. Within the box was a pile of old papers and notebooks that he had chosen to hang on to, and on the very top—worn out, with a bent spine—was his journal. It was just a simple notebook. One of those five-subject ones you could buy at practically any store you looked in. But he considered it among one of the most valuable things he owned. As he turned the pages, he thought about how bizarre it was that he was going through his journal because he'd forgotten something. Usually, when people go back over their journals—or diaries, as the case may be—they do it to reminisce over their past and to try to assess how they've changed. But not him. He was looking for something. What he was looking for, he had no idea, but he figured he'd know it when he saw it.

Not long after he began sifting through those old pages did he realize something that nearly made his heart stop: there were pages missing. He saw one that was written on April 15th, 2012, and the one right after it was dated April 23rd, 2012. There were eight days in between that had been skipped! But that wasn't right. Cody knew that wasn't right because he wrote in that journal every single day. He _never _skipped a day. Never.

_This doesn't make any sense. _

Then another sudden thought occurred to him—a terrifying thought: _Someone's been in my journal. _

It had to be that. There was no other way to explain it. He'd never removed a page before, and he'd never skipped a day. The only other option was that someone had been looking through his journal, taking out some of the pages…for whatever reason. Cody felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his stomach churn uncomfortably. Someone—possibly someone who didn't like him—had read his private words, and now knew some of his most intimate thoughts. They knew about his college parties, his two drinking binges, his late nights, his success (or lack thereof) with girls, his friendships, and his opinions about professors and fellow students, and life in general. They knew him in a way that, previously, only he had known himself. And that scared him. It chilled his bones and sent a shiver darting up his spine.

_Someone's read my journal, someone's read my journal, someone's read my journal, someone's read my journal…_

He felt like he was going to puke. The truth of it was nearly staggering. And what was worse was the fact that they—whoever they were—had taken some of the pages. And for what? As proof of something? As something to show someone? And why did they take the pages they took? Were they more interesting in some way? More juicy? Did they stand out somehow? Cody thought back. His memory was dusty but he couldn't remember anything particularly special happening in April. He continued to turn through the pages. He read through them to see what was still there and, and to try to figure out what was missing.

His college parties were there, including the one in which he'd gotten drunk. So was his other drinking spree, which had happened after he'd had a bad day and thought a bottle of Vodka could solve it. So were most other "special" occasions. Dates with girls were there. Calls to his mom and to Bailey were there. Hang outs with friends were there. As were late nights, stressful exams, and projects. But there were several more pages that had been torn out. There were three missing pages from February, about twelve from June, ten from July, one from August, and a large chunk from September. The last entry was dated October 1st. Was that yesterday? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. Cody still didn't know what day it was. He'd have to ask someone later.

After a while, Cody gave up looking for missing pages. There were just too many. However, he came across this one page—it had been written on September 3rd—where the last sentence was cut off at the end. Cody read it to himself: "After I hung up with my mom, I decided it'd be a good idea to call…" That was it. It went over to the next page, but the next page was written on September 28th, 25 days later, and was about something completely different. _Call who?_ Cody thought. Who had he called after calling his mom? Was it Bailey? Was it one of his friends from school? Eric, maybe? Or Dale? Or Jared? Cody tried to remember, but to no avail. Even if he wasn't suffering from memory loss there was no guarantee that he'd recall a simple phone call. He called lots of people, for various reasons.

He considered calling Bailey up again, after his phone was done recharging, and asking her about his past calls. But then he thought again and decided against it. He couldn't count on her. Why would she remember? Why should she remember? And even if she did, why should she tell him?

At that moment, a third sudden thought came at Cody out of the blue. This one seemed like it could be far-fetched, but, then again, anything was possible. Especially now. Now was not the time to be ruling out possibilities. _What if the reason behind the removal of some of these journal pages, and the thing I have forgotten, are one and the same? _It was viable. If it was something that had meant a great deal to him, the chances that he'd written about it were more likely than not. But then…what was it? Why did someone think it had to be removed from Cody's journal? And, perhaps more importantly, did this person also think it had to be removed from Cody's memory?

Cody felt his stomach cramp sickeningly, followed by a hot liquid that oozed its way up his throat, stinging the lining of his esophagus. He dashed from his bedroom and into the bathroom, and kneeled over the toilet. He gripped the toilet's rim and braced himself as he retched and vomited. He vomited for a good minute or two, and then collapsed on the bathroom floor and just breathed.

…

Lisa Burke didn't even realize that her leg was shaking beneath the table until she accidently hit its underside with her knee. The jolt caused some of her colleague's coffee to fall out of his Styrofoam cup and splat onto the table.

"Sorry," she apologized. "I'll go get a napkin." She stood up, went over to the serving table, and came back fifteen seconds later with a napkin in her hand. Her colleague, Greg Harrison, moved his cup and allowed her to clean up the mess. Once she was done, she placed the sopping napkin on her own half-empty tray and sat back down.

"Are you nervous or something?" Greg asked. "You seem a little…tense."

"Tense?" Lisa tried to sound genuinely puzzled. "Why would you say that?"

"You've been shaking your leg under the table relentlessly for the past ten minutes. Is something bothering you, Lisa?"

"N…no, nothing. I've just…I've been thinking a lot, that's all." That sounded ridiculously unconvincing, and Lisa knew it did.

"Thinking about what?" Greg gave her his ever-so-famous no-nonsense look. Lisa wasn't even sure why that look bothered her so much. Why it made her feel like she was two feet tall. It wasn't like Greg was her boss. He was only her colleague. He couldn't fire her anymore than she could fire him. Technically speaking, she didn't have to tell him jack shit about what she was thinking, and there'd be nothing he could do about it. But nonetheless, looking at him gave her this strong feeling of obligation. Maybe it was because something about Greg reminded her of her father; he'd been a no-nonsense man too. And Greg rather resembled him. They had the same jet-black hair, the same blue-green eyes, approximately the same height, and many of the same facial features. Whatever the psychological reason, she was propelled to give into him.

"About that kid we…took care of…last night," she admitted. "Cody Martin."

"What about him?"

"I'm just worried about him. He was my first, you know. I mean, I've done test runs in training but…he was my first _real _job, and…I'm just wondering if he's okay."

"I'm sure he's doing just fine. He's probably happily resuming his life."

"I'd like to think so. But I keep feeling like something's off."

"Off?"

"Yeah, like…what if…what if we screwed up on something? What if we erased the wrong memories, or scrambled his brain waves? What if he woke up with no idea of who he was? What if—?"

"He's _fine_, Lisa!" Greg took a sip of his coffee, and then sighed. "I've done this quite a few times myself, with many different kinds of people, and with a multitude of memories. I know how it's supposed to be done, and believe me, you performed wonderfully. You followed protocol down to the last detail, and you did it the right way. You've got nothing to fret over."

"I guess." Lisa paused to take in a deep breath. "Did you know that he was a twin?"

"Cody?"

"Yeah. He had a twin brother named…" she thought for a second, trying to remember, "oh, what was it…Jack, maybe? Or, no, it was Zack. He had a twin brother named Zack."

"That's interesting. I don't recall that we've ever operated on a twin before."

"We haven't."

"You should feel honored then. Twins are fairly rare, and here you're the first to operate on one. Tell me, what memories did you erase?"

Lisa said nothing. Instead, she stared firmly at Greg. Unblinkingly. Answering him with her eyes.

Greg caught on instantly. "I see," he said.

"They say that twins have stronger bonds than other siblings do," Lisa added. "What if he didn't completely forget about him? What if half his memories disappeared and the other half didn't. What if…"—she sighed in sudden aggravation—"what if this is all wrong? This procedure, it's only been out for a year now. That's not a long time. And we're tampering with people's _minds_! We could cause severe irreversible brain damage. Heck, we could _kill _someone…and then wind up getting sued."

"Oh, I highly doubt anyone would try to sue us. We bring in far too much profit for that. All we'd have to do is dip into our funds and wave some portion of it in front of a judge, and the case would be settled before it even got started." Greg said that mainly to make Lisa feel better, but it didn't work.

"Even so," she continued, "we'd have dead people on our hands. We'd be responsible for them, and for their families. What then?"

Greg chuckled. Not in humor, but in such a way as to belittle Lisa's intelligence. "Easy," he said. "We figure out where we went wrong, we make the machines more efficient, and then operate on the family members. They'd never know they lost someone."

"But we can't operate on people unless they _want _us to. We're a service, Greg."

"We can if we feel it's justifiable. Emergencies call for enforced memory extractions. We legally can do that."

"But would grief be considered an emergency?"

"If it could implicate our organization, yes, it would be. We have to protect ourselves first and foremost. Otherwise this organization could be shut down. That would mean no more work for people like us. We'd be out of a job."

Lisa bit her lip, something she did frequently when she was uncomfortable. Greg noticed this. He was well-acquainted with her habits. She only bit her lip when something else was bothering her—something she was attempting to hide. He knew what she was really feeling; he knew that it wasn't just worry over the well-being of her first customer.

"Lisa, listen to me—I know what you're going through. You're still very new to this; you're uncertain about what we do. Trust me, I know. I know the feeling all too well. What you're experiencing is first-timer's guilt. Most of us experience that after our first customer. I know I did. I couldn't sleep for three nights after mine."

Lisa looked down at her nearly vacant tray of untouched food, shamefaced.

"Lisa," Greg said. "Lisa, look at me."

Gradually, her eyes lifted up and found his. Part of her wanted to shrink away in their presence, but she did not move a muscle.

"What you're feeling is perfectly natural. We do something for a living that's very…controversial. There are people who hate us. People who think what we do is wrong. And unfortunately, a lot of them have influence over our society. Politicians. Churches. Even celebrities. There are all kinds of BS stories about us in the news, saying we're ungodly. Everywhere you go, some right-wing, overly-Christianized maniac is jumping up and down, screaming that we've gone too far." Greg paused, making sure that Lisa was paying attention. "And it's hard to live with that. It really is. But you know what? They've been saying stuff like that for years. They said that same thing about abortions, and they said that same thing about organ transplants, and they said that same thing about sex changes, and about cloning—honestly, everything we do is too much. Everyone just concentrates on the negative. On our failures. We do something good, no one remembers; we make a mistake, no one forgets. That's just how it is. But you can't let that stop you. Science has come a long way, and it's still going strong. We're making so many contributions."

"Maybe you're right," Lisa murmured, slightly nodding her head.

Greg smirked proudly. "Of course I am."

"But still…I can see where some of those people are coming from."

Greg's smirk immediately was replaced by an irritated, almost threatening, look.

"I used to go to church when I was a little girl. My dad would force me to go. I hated it most of time. But, not always. I agreed with some of the things they taught me. I always liked the scriptures about redemption. I liked the idea that people could wipe their slate clean. No matter what they did."

Greg didn't grasp that she was referring to herself. "Well," he said seriously. "With what we've got now, there's no need for redemption."

"Are you sure about that?" Lisa really didn't mean to ask that. The words escaped her before she could stop them.

Greg despised when people asked if he was sure about something.

His eyes seemed to pierce Lisa's with an intensity that made all her confidence and bravado—however much she had in her—fall and crumble. _It's just like when you were a child, and Daddy kept telling you not to run your mouth. This man makes you feel like you're six years old again. He shouldn't. He's not your superior, in any way. And you're a full grown woman now. You can take care of yourself. He should have no hold over you. _

_But he does. He does, and you think you might hate him for it._

"Absolutely," Greg told her. "I'd bet my life on it. Redemption's no longer necessary. Nor is retribution, or painful healing, or...any of those life-long struggles. We're offering people a way to start all over, instead of having to just move on and hope for the best. Life's too short to waste it on bad memories. It's not wise to dwell on deaths, and divorces, and abuse, and such. People can drive themselves crazy that way. In fact, they have. This is a far more convenient method for dealing with trauma."

Again, Lisa nodded, though she wasn't entirely sure she believed him. She nodded simply because she felt she had to. Because this was her job. This was her life now.

Greg pulled up the left sleeve of his lab coat and glanced at his wrist watch. "Lunch break's almost over," he mentioned aloud. "So if you're going to eat anymore, I suggest you do it now."

"No," Lisa said. "I think I'm good. I'm just going to dump the rest of this." She looked at her tray. Upon it was a blob of uneaten chocolate pudding, a half eaten turkey sub, and a diet coke. She didn't want any of it. Anything she ate was guaranteed to unsettle her stomach.

"Alright, then," Greg said, taking another sip of his coffee. Greg was strange that way. He didn't just drink coffee in the morning like most people did. He drank it practically all day. He drank it for the taste, rather than the caffeine. "I'll meet you in the lab."

"Okay," Lisa said softly. "See you there." She picked up her tray, stood, and then began walking toward the trash cans at the other end of the lunch room.

Greg watched her leave.


	3. Someone I've Never Known

**Here is chapter 3! It's rather long, but there's a lot to it. There's a twist. :)**

**The part near the beginning, with TJ, may be somewhat confusing. But keep in mind that Cody has only forgotten one thing in particular—not everything about his life. Also, TJ is a debatable character; he's not saintly, that's for sure. But, at the same time, he's not a bad guy. Judge for yourself. **

**Hope you all enjoy! Please review!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except that OC's. **

After Cody had gotten up off the bathroom floor, he came into the kitchen segment of his apartment and got himself some cold tea from the fridge. The taste of vomit still lingered in his mouth and it was disgustingly sour. Probably had some stomach acid in it, which would explain the burning sensation running down his throat. He needed a drink. Badly. He grabbed a cup from one of the cabinets overhead and poured the tea into it. He gulped it down as though he were dying of dehydration. Luckily, the foul taste of the vomit subsided.

He sat at the kitchen table, setting the half empty cup down in front of him. He was weary and miserable, and dreading the possibility that his massive headache might return. Overcome with a lack of motivation, he slumped over, pressing his elbows against the table top, and buried his face into the palms of his hands. For a long, tranquil moment, he did absolutely nothing but breathe, feeling the carbon dioxide from his mouth warm his skin.

Suddenly, there was a knock on his apartment door. At first, he made no attempt to get up. He didn't want to move; he just wanted to sit where he was and let the silence have him. But when the knocking continued, he figured he'd better go see who it was. _It might be my landlord coming to give me my bill for the month._

But it wasn't his landlord.

When Cody opened the door to his apartment, he was surprised to see his college friend, TJ Ashburn, standing before him. TJ was a criminal justice major at Harvard, and he and Cody had been in several classes together. Cody's goal was to become a lawyer, while TJ's goal was to work for the FBI as a field agent. Since those areas of study were closely related to one another, they had been bound to run into each other eventually. They'd met during their first week of freshman year and had instantly hit it off. TJ was interesting…to say the least.

He wasn't what you'd call a conventional friend. He had quite an interesting cultural background; his father was half black and his mother was full-blooded Indian (Indian from India, not Native American Indian). She had moved from a city called Delhi when she was twelve and had met TJ's father in New York not long after finishing high school.

So TJ was a quarter black and half Indian—not the usual American mix. Especially for someone who lived in Boston, where people of his ethnic background were exceedingly rare. His name, TJ, wasn't even a conventional name; it stood for Tejas Jemin—an Indian name picked out by his mother.

Surprisingly, he wasn't too enthusiastic about his heritage. At least, he didn't show any pride in it. There wasn't much difference between him and the average20-year-old American boy. He dressed casually (usually either in sweats or ripped jeans and T-shirts) and never left his apartment without three essential items: his BlackBerry, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. He didn't speak any languages other than English, and he didn't have any kind of a foreign accent. What defined him were his physical aspects—his bronze skin, his chocolate-colored eyes, his chiseled facial features…the tell-tale signs of where his ancestors came from. But he didn't acknowledge them. Cody sometimes wished he would, but TJ would always tell him that in the end it didn't matter what his culture was because it didn't distinguish him. "At the end of the day, all I am is a person, same as everybody else," He'd say. And he said that quite often.

Cody assumed that part of the reason TJ didn't show much in the way of passion toward his heritage was because of his parents' religious beliefs. His dad was Christian and his mom was Hindu, and they had not worked out how they were going to raise TJ by the time he was born. They had introduced him to both religions, thinking that he could later choose between them, but hadn't realized that children—small children especially—needed to be taught either one thing or another or else they'd end up confused.

TJ had gotten very confused in his early years. He'd told Cody multiple stories about how he would go back and forth between his parents, asking them questions about why things were the way they were, and how their answers would be so different and he would be so baffled by them that he would actually go into his bedroom and cry beneath his covers. What else was a toddler to do? Or a five-year-old, for that matter? He wanted the truth, just like any normal child does, and the only sources he knew of to get it from contradicted each other.

He grew up in a constant state of uncertainty, his whole existence was a web of doubt and disappointment. He never knew what to do, or where to go, or who to turn to…or what to believe in. If anyone were to ask him what he knew, for certain, to be the truth, he would only be able to list things he had been taught in school—two plus three equals five, B comes after A, a human being is matter because he or she has mass and occupies space. Things of that nature. But nothing else. Nothing of emotional substance. He didn't know what love was, or if he'd ever felt it before, and he didn't know what it meant to have faith in anything. Cody felt sorry for him. By the time he was ten years old, the poor kid had been completely mind-fucked.

Standing before him now, leaning against one side of the doorway with his legs crossed, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, TJ was a sight for sore eyes. Despite his lethargy and reluctance to have any visitors at the moment, Cody felt a smile pull at his lips that he couldn't ignore. TJ was one of those people who demanded smiles. Not literally, of course, but by his presence. Despite his childhood, he was a jovial person. He had this light-hearted way about him that was unmistakable, and it drew people to him like moths to a fluorescent light. Particularly people like Cody, who were perfectionists and sometimes needed a laid-back personality to contrast their anxiety.

TJ was smiling in return, but it was noticeably strained. Cody knew TJ well enough to know what his genuine smiles looked like, and this was not one of them. Nevertheless, Cody simply smiled back.

"Well I'll be damned!" TJ exclaimed in mock alarm, his voice indicating that he was trying to sound like his usual self. "He's still alive!"

Cody's smile grew. It grew on its own, without his awareness. He was amazed at the notion that he could be smiling at a time like this, right after finding out that his private belongings had been looked through and damaged and he had just been puking his guts up into the toilet. TJ had a gift for making people feel better, even if they were having the worst day of their lives—or the craziest day. "Hey TJ, you nosy son of a bitch" Cody said, more happily than he would have imagined, "get in here."

TJ wasn't the type of friend who got offended when someone called him by a derogative word. He even called Cody such words from time to time. He liked to take derogative terms and use them on a friendly basis, thinking that by doing so, he could make it so nothing bothered him. Words only meant what people wanted them to mean, after all.

TJ stepped through the threshold, letting the door close behind him. "Where the fuck've you been, man?" he asked. "I thought you were _dead_. I haven't seen you in, like, two fuckin' weeks. That's way too long to go without seeing my homeboy." TJ sometimes spoke like a gangster. He was far from being one, but he'd picked up some of the characteristics from his dad's side of the family. He'd spent quite a bit of his childhood with a couple of his cousins, all of whom thought gangsters were the shit and went around wearing muscle shirts and do-rags all day.

"Sorry about that, man," Cody apologized. He felt rather guilty about not seeing TJ. TJ's name was on the contact list of his cell phone; he could have called him up and at least said hi. Recently he had been more focused on getting a hold of Bailey and his mother. It wasn't like he didn't have a good reason not to contact TJ, what with his memory loss issue, his short-but-creepy conversation with the reverend, and the missing pages from his journal—all of which he did not want to tell TJ about. But still, he felt like he hadn't been a very dependable friend lately.

Cody was like that—always willing to take blame, even when he wasn't at fault. "But something's been going on. Something…I don't know…something freaky. I haven't been myself today."

TJ's expression instantly became one of genuine worry. "Dude, what happened?"

Cody knew he wasn't going to give TJ the specifics. TJ was a good friend, and Cody enjoyed his company, but he did not trust TJ with such confidential information. "Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing, don't worry about it. I'm fine. Just a little outta sorts is all."

That wasn't enough for TJ. He may have been a confused kid, but he sure as hell wasn't stupid. He could tell when something was up. Especially with a terrible liar like Cody. "Bullshit," he argued. "Som'thin's goin' on. I know you better than that, man." He attempted to smile again but failed. Cody could sense nervousness beneath his effort to act normal. "I'm a criminal justice major, asshole. You can't hide nothin' from me. What is it?"

Cody let out a chuckle. That was TJ's way of letting him know that he wanted Cody to be honest with him. Still, Cody wasn't going to tell him what that happened. At least, not all of it. A portion of it wouldn't hurt, though. TJ wasn't going to let up until he got that much. "I woke up with a splitting headache and had no idea where it came from, and my brain just hasn't been functioning properly ever since."

It was the truth. Not the whole truth, but still the truth in its own right.

TJ didn't seem surprised, or worried. If his expression reflected anything, it was suspicion. "Man, you were probably just hung over and didn't realize it," he told him. "That's happened to me before. One time I passed out on a girlfriend's couch after she convinced me to down a bottle of gin—I was out like a light. Didn't wake up until noon the next day and my head felt like a fuckin' punching bag. Couldn't remember jack."

TJ took a drag on his cigarette.

The smoke spewed over in the direction of Cody's face and Cody nearly gagged. He hated the smell of cigarette smoke. Even more than that, he hated when TJ smoked indoors. Cody was not a smoker, and he did not approve of people smoking in his apartment. He had nothing against smokers themselves; several of his college friends smoked like chimneys. But he did not take kindly to people walking into his apartment with lit cigarettes in their hands, especially when they knew full well that he didn't smoke. Not only were they not supposed to do that by law (smoking was not permitted in the apartment building), but it was just plain disrespectful. Sure, people had a right to smoke. But why did he have to suffer for that right? It was ridiculous. "You know, you're not supposed to smoke in here," he remarked. "It's not allowed."

TJ shrugged. "What're they gonna do, arrest me? Geez, that'd be retarded. When someone rents an apartment, it's pretty much theirs. They should be able to smoke in it if they damn well want to."

"It's not your apartment, TJ," Cody said seriously. "It's mine, and I really don't want to smell your cigarette smoke any more. I think it's disgusting. So if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd put it out."

Though Cody liked TJ, he had numerous disputes with him. Usually the disputes were over silly things, but there were times when Cody felt that someone really needed to put TJ in his place. And Cody was not afraid to do that when an occasion called for it.

TJ looked at Cody defiantly for a moment, then shrugged again and went over to the sink to dowse the burning end of the cigarette in water. After he did that, he tossed it in the nearest trash can and came back over to where Cody had taken a seat on the sofa in his living room space.

TJ stood before him, his arms crossed. He wasn't angry. TJ wasn't the type to get angry easily. He typically just shook things off. One of the best qualities about him that Cody could not say for some of his other friends was that he was very easygoing. That might have been the main reason why they had stayed friends for as long as they did. "So, what do you think?" TJ wanted to know. "Were you hung over or what?"

"Or what," Cody replied. He couldn't say that with absolute certainty, as he was still clueless as to what he had done the day before, but he felt confident enough to rule out the drinking possibility. It was solely on intuition, but Cody trusted his gut instinct.

_But you know what, TJ? You're the second person who's thought that. The third, counting myself. You, me, and my ex-girlfriend all considered that I got shitfaced last night. _

"Well, maybe you're just tense," TJ suggested. "Lots of people get headaches from being too stressed out. Maybe you just need to get some rest and recharge."

"That's just the thing, though, TJ—I _was_ resting. I didn't realize I had a headache until I woke up this morning."

"Well, hell, maybe you're getting sick. After all, you get sick all the frickin' time. Maybe you forgot to germ-x your hands before bed or something." TJ knew about Cody's obsession with keeping clean and staying healthy. He teased him about it every chance he got. Cody was alright with that. Many other people teased him for it too. He was used to the jokes and the bantering by now. "Maybe your body just decided that it was time for a headache. Jesus, I'm not a doctor. I don't know. I mean, look at you. You look like shit. You look like you've been run over by a car and then pieced back together." TJ's expression was a mosaic of amusement, hesitation, resentment, and concern.

Something was the matter with him. Cody knew it.

_What's wrong, TJ? Do you know something? Do you remember something that I don't? You're the third person to state the obvious—that I look like shit, for some reason. _

"Thanks, TJ. That really helped," Cody said sarcastically.

"Look, man, I don't think this is anything worth worrying over. So you had a splitting headache—maybe a migraine. Big frickin' deal. They go away. Just take some aspirin."

"I did—well, Tylenol. And the headache did go away."

"Good. Then you should be fine."

_Yeah, I should be. But I'm not. _

There was a pause between them. Pauses with TJ were always awkward. TJ was not one to stop talking often.

Eventually, Cody had to break the silence. "You want something to eat?"

"Sure. Pass som'thin over here." Of course, TJ would never decline an offer of food.

Cody went back over to the kitchen segment of his apartment and opened the fridge. There wasn't much in the line of food. Just some bread, some cheese, some jam, some oranges and apples, and some tacos he had gotten from Taco Bell a few days ago and hadn't eaten. They were still in their take-out bag, untouched, and wrapped up. Cody figured they were no longer safe to eat and tossed them into the garbage. God, he thought. I've got to start eating this stuff. It wasn't like him to waste food. In fact, he hated the whole idea of wasting food. But at the same time, he hardly ever had a chance to eat. He would get food, promise himself that he would eat it later when he had more time, and then forget about it and let it sit for days. Even weeks. It was pitiful. But that's what college often did to a person. Not to mention, that's what trauma often did to a person. And to think, before enrolling he had been excessively health conscious. I'm turning into such a slob, he criticized himself.

For some odd reason, the word "slob" made the feeling of forgetting something return. And it returned with a vengeance. Cody wracked his brain. His stomach started doing flips and he tasted more vomit in his mouth. Slob, he thought again, and the feeling increased. He could feel his intestines twisting into knots and his body slumping over from the pain.

Damn it, what is this? First my journal, and now the word "slob"? What the hell has that got to do with anything?

Cody remembered back to what he had considered before—that it wasn't "something" that he had forgotten, but "someone." Is this someone I've forgotten a slob? Or were they a slob? Cody huffed. This made no sense. Nothing made sense anymore. There was a part of him that wanted to believe he'd forgotten a person—a part that thought that was the only reasonable explanation for what had been happening. But there was another part of him, just as forceful as the former, which could not come to accept that theory. It was ridiculous, wasn't it? How could he forget someone important to him?

He couldn't. It wasn't plausible. The mind retains that kind of information. It's permanently stored in there…that is, unless someone was suffering from amnesia. But that was out of the question. He wasn't suffering from amnesia. People who suffer from amnesia didn't know who they were. They didn't know their names, or where they came from, or who their families were, or what kind of person they were before their minds went all wonky. He did.

_I know with perfect clarity who I am, _Cody thought sternly._ I'm Cody Martin, from Boston, Massachusetts. Son of Carey and Kurt Martin. College student. Twenty-year-old. Only child._

_Therefore, I'm not an amnesiac. _

_But Jesus, what is going on with me? What. In. the. Blazing. World. Could. I. Have. Forgotten. That. Would. Make. Me. Feel. This. Fucking. Miserable?_

_And what's with the sickly look? Why do I look like a zombie from a horror movie? I'm in good fucking healthy. Even if I don't eat properly anymore. _

"Hey Cody, you bringin' that food over any time soon?" TJ was getting impatient. That was perfectly normal for him. Despite how sculpted and fit TJ's body was, he could pig out like no one would believe. He could eat someone out of house and home.

Cody took one last look at the inside of the fridge and decided that he didn't have enough to feed TJ (once TJ started eating, he couldn't stop). He hardly had enough to feed himself. So he replied with, "Sorry, man, I just remembered, I forgot to go grocery shopping. I have, like, nothing in here to eat. How about a soda instead?" He had some Cokes and Mountain Dews in the back of the fridge, behind the woeful lack of food.

"Yeah, man, that'll be fine," TJ said, but Cody could tell by his tone of voice that he was disappointed. TJ wouldn't turn down a drink either, but drinks didn't cut it with him as well as food did.

"Mountain Dew or Coke?"

"Uh, Coke."

Cody grabbed a Coke for TJ and a second one for himself. Then he closed the refrigerator door and came back over to the living room space, where TJ was waiting, leaning against the arm of the sofa. Cody handed TJ his Coke, and then sat back down.

"Thanks," TJ said. Though he didn't look it—and often didn't act it—TJ was very mannerly. His mother had taught him to be that way. According to TJ, manners were a big thing in India. In fact, at one time, a person could be killed for not showing due respect.

"No problem," Cody said back.

TJ opened the can and took a swig. He swallowed. For a long moment, he appeared to be staring off into space, unsure of what to do. Cody thought he could even see beads of sweat dripping from his brow, which cinched the idea that TJ was incredibility nervous about something.

Cody sat in silence, hoping TJ would tell him what was on his mind, not wanting to risk sounding pushy for asking himself. Eventually, he zoned out and his mind went blank.

TJ brought him back. "Fuck it," he muttered.

"Fuck what?" Cody asked, starting a little.

"What's with you, man?" TJ implored. "Where've you been? After I heard about the fire, I was scared shitless about you. I thought you were fuckin' _dead_. Then I heard that you were alright, and I was all relieved. But then…like…you didn't come to school for days, and I never heard from you. And now I finally come to see you and you just tell me you had a splitting headache. That goes beyond me. I mean, I didn't want to ask you about the fire and all that shit because I figured you and I were close enough that you'd tell me on your own. But I guess not."

Cody felt his intestines twist into knots again. Painful, throbbing knots. "Please, TJ, please…let's not talk about this."

"Why not?"

"Because…because, I just can't talk about it right now."

"Mind telling me at least how you survived? Cause I'm dying to know."

Cody looked at TJ earnestly. "Why do you _need_ to know? Why can't you just be happy that I'm alive?"

"Look, man," TJ was trying to mask his disbelief by rationality. "I'm glad you're alive, make no mistake about that. You wouldn't believe how devastated I was when I thought I lost you. But still, think about it—you were the only survivor of that whole thing. The only one to walk away, and you weren't even scratched. How does that happen? I just…" TJ paused and sighed. "I don't know what to believe here, man."

_You never knew what to believe, TJ. What makes this any different?_

TJ took another swig of his Coke. "I want you to give me a better explanation. I thought I lost you for a while there. I know I keep repeating that, but you couldn't begin to imagine my relief when I found out that you were alive. I tried to come see you several times but this doctor and this school nurse kept hounding me and telling me I needed to leave you alone. They kept tabs on me; I wasn't allowed to come anywhere near you until now. They told me to act happy to see you so I wouldn't throw you off. But, honestly, right now,_ I'm_ thrown off. What happened? I think I deserve to know. I just can't act natural anymore."

Cody was too taken aback to answer. "You were approached by a doctor, and a nurse?" he gasped. "What did they say?"

TJ shrugged. "I dunno, man. A bunch o' weird stuff. They said, like, you weren't going to be yourself for a few days…and that I should just be happy around you. They told me to act like nothing happened. Fuck, I could get in trouble for what I just told you now. They specifically said not to tell you any of this shit. But I couldn't help it, man. I just couldn't help myself. This bullshit is throwing my mind for a loop. It's not like I can carry on like nothing's been going on just cause they told me to." TJ looked desperately at Cody.

Cody knew, within a second's time, that—for better or for worse—he needed to be honest with TJ. He had to trust him. TJ was obviously scared, and that was unlike the TJ that Cody knew.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, I'll tell you everything. But I'll need you to shut up and listen to me, got that?"

"Yeah, man," TJ replied immediately. "Anything you say."

"Alright." Cody took a long, slow breath. _Where do I start? I guess, with this morning_. "When I woke up this morning, I had this huge headache."

TJ nodded in acknowledgment.

"But that's not all. I also had this feeling—this really strange feeling—that I'd forgotten something important. It wasn't like forgetting typical stuff; it was like…like I had forgotten something essential, you know? Like a person."

"A person?" TJ was perplexed.

"Yeah," Cody said. "A person. And not just any person, but someone I was never supposed to forget. Someone I knew really well. I tried to act normal. At first, I thought maybe I was suffering from amnesia, or that I was hung over, cause I couldn't remember anything I did yesterday. I kept trying to remember, but I drew a blank. And I called Bailey up. You know, my ex-girlfriend?"

"Yeah," TJ said. He knew about Bailey; Cody had told him quite a few stories about her.

"She and I met at the pier and we talked." Cody didn't feel he should tell TJ the details about that, so he didn't. "She was…well, you know…no better than I should have expected her to be."

TJ nodded again in understanding.

"Anyway, she didn't help me much. But there was this preacher guy."

"Preacher guy?"

"Yeah, he was from the Boston Methodist Church. He came up to me before I left to go see Bailey and said he wanted to save my soul."

"Save your soul?" TJ said doubtfully. "Are you sure he wasn't a Jehovah's Witness?"

"I'm sure. He gave me a card with a number and everything."

Cody glanced down at his hands and saw that his fingers were squeezing his Coke can a little too harshly, which he still hadn't opened. He didn't feel like drinking anything anymore, and since he also didn't want to accidently make a mess all over himself and the furniture, he set the can down on the floor next to his feet and continued. "Here's the scariest part. Later, I got pissed off and thought maybe I could find out what I'd forgotten by looking through my journal."

TJ cocked an eyebrow inquisitively. Cody realized that he had never told TJ about his journal-keeping habit. He'd always considered that too private to reveal to most people. But it was too late to take it back now. "I keep a journal, okay?" he admitted. "I write in it every day. It helps me sort things out."

TJ nodded.

"But when I looked inside it today, some of the pages were torn out. And not just two or three—whole chunks!" Cody felt like he was going to vomit again. He still couldn't believe any of this. "Whole chunks of my journal were taken out, and I have no idea why."

"Are you sure you didn't just take them out and forget about doing it?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Cody retorted. Then he added, "I'm sorry. It's just…this is freaking me out, man. Someone was in here. I know they were. And for whatever reason, they were messing with my journal. The whole thing makes me sick. I was puking my guts up just minutes before you knocked on the door!"

TJ grimaced. "Sheesh."

"I know. It's fucked up."

TJ thought about this for a moment, and then glanced at Cody with doubtful hope. "Would you mind if I took a look at your journal? Not to read it or anything, but to maybe…I dunno, help you with this?"

Cody didn't know about that. His journal was supposed to be for his eyes only. He honestly would have preferred it if Bailey had asked to look in it. But he didn't want to get her involved anymore than she had already, so he sighed and gave in. This was the best he could do. Besides, TJ was caught in the middle of this mess. If he wasn't, then that doctor and nurse would not have felt the urge to approach him.

Cody took TJ to his bedroom and fished for the plastic box beneath his bed. He pulled it out, opened it, and handed TJ his tattered journal. "Here it is," he said.

TJ turned the pages and glanced at the dates, noticing that there were several missing. "Yep, it's like you said," he stated. "A shit-load of the pages are gone."

_Why thank you, master of the obvious_, Cody thought bitterly. "Well, there you have it—my warped journal." He reached out his hand for TJ to return it, and TJ handed it over without reluctance.

Cody turned the pages himself, even though he had already done so. He gazed once again at those gaps between his written thoughts, wondering what had filled them before. He even came to the page where he had begun to write about someone he'd wanted to call and looked long and hard at where the sentence had been cut off. Then he clenched his teeth together and slammed the journal down on the carpet, trying to hold in tears that were pricking at the corners of his eyes. The last thing he needed was to cry in front of TJ.

"Hey, man," TJ said comfortingly, "it'll be okay. We'll figure this out. Maybe we could go to the police."

"And tell them what? That someone looked through my diary?"

"Why not? Whoever did had to have broken into this place in order to do that. That's a crime, man!"

Cody said nothing. He just shook his head in disagreement and scooted against his bed. His back touched the mattresses. He felt so helpless, and vulnerable. He wanted to curl into a ball and wait for the world to stop turning. Or for himself to wake up and realize that this was all a dream and he hadn't really forgotten anything.

TJ glanced down at the opened plastic box, where there was a pile of other notebooks and papers—most of them tattered and old—sitting in stacks and heaps. "What are all these?" he asked.

"Just some old shit that I didn't wanna throw away," Cody told him. "Some of those notebooks are old journals I had when I was a teenager."

"Can I look through them?"

Cody shrugged. "Knock yourself out."

He didn't care. Someone else had surely looked through them—God knew who they were—and they probably had already used them for something by now. So why couldn't a friend such as TJ take a peek?

TJ picked up the notebooks and papers one by one and began sifting through them, glimpsing at the dates and the ending sentences. Pages from them had been ripped away as well. He told Cody this, but Cody was not surprised. Then he came across a photo album. It wasn't one of the fancy ones. It was basically just a booklet roughly the size of a photo with a brown cover and plastic slots inside. TJ looked through the pictures. There weren't very many. Cody wasn't a huge fan of picture taking. He'd even told TJ once that he was only doing it for his mom—because she had asked him to. There were pictures with TJ in them, as well as pictures of Cody's other friends. There was even one of his landlord, a middle-aged man dressed in a black shirt with "NIN" printed on it—the abbreviation for the band "Nine Inch Nails"—and tattooed arms. His one arm was in front of him, revealing his hand clutching a bottle of Bud Light, and his other arm was wrapped around Cody's shoulders. There were several pictures with Bailey, and two of college professors that Cody had liked. TJ recognized one of them—Professor Bradford, who taught Introduction to Politics. TJ had liked him as well; he was one of the few people who could talk about the American governmental system without putting his students to sleep.

When TJ came to the last picture in the album, he stopped. It was a picture of Cody, Bailey, and some other guy that TJ had never seen before. Normally, he would not have been surprised by that. Cody had a rather wide circle of friends, and TJ knew that he had not met all of them. But what did cause TJ's heart to skip a beat was the fact that the third guy looked like Cody—exactly like Cody. He had the same hair, the same eyes, the same nose, the same shape of the mouth. The same smile. He was standing in the center of the trio, Cody on his right, Bailey on his left, and all three of them were grinning brightly into the camera. _Who is this?_ TJ wondered. _Is he related to Cody?_ He had to have been. The resemblance was too strong.

"Hey Cody," TJ said, "you got a brother?"

Cody looked at TJ in puzzlement. "No, why?"

TJ showed him the picture. "I found this picture. You're in it with Bailey, and there's this dude who looks just like you."

Cody took the picture from TJ's hand and gazed at it. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he let out a horrible gasp. TJ was right. He saw himself standing in the photo with Bailey, both of them smiling like they were on cloud nine, situated on either side of a third boy who Cody had never seen in his life but felt he should have known. They had their arms wrapped around him and he had his wrapped around them in return. He, too, was beaming.

Cody had no recollection whatsoever of having this picture taken, and when he tried to think back, he completely drew a blank. The boy did share an uncanny resemblance to him. A resemblance that screamed blood relation. And not just blood relation, but brother. If Cody had been anyone else looking at this picture, he would have instantly assumed that he and this boy were twins.

And oddly enough, the harder Cody's eyes focused on this strange boy, his feeling of forgetfulness intensified. It came back to him, eating away at his mind. Tearing apart the tissue of his already-tender intestines. He felt the urge to gag. Again.

"Cody?" TJ asked gently, noticing Cody's ashen face and painful expression. "You okay?"

Cody didn't answer. Silence had penetrated him, accompanied by the ever-so-familiar sensation of forgetting something essential. Something life-changing.

"Cody?" TJ repeated, nearly begging. "Cody, man, what's wrong?"

Cody managed to swallow. "I don't know this guy," he remarked, his voice somewhat strained. "I've never met him."

"But, that doesn't make any sense."

TJ and Cody met each other's eyes and stared at one another for a lengthy minute, more baffled than ever.

"You had to have known him at some point," TJ added, trying determinedly to cling to logic with this. It was the only thing he knew. The only thing he was sure of. "You took a picture with him. Think back, Cody. Think hard. It's probably just been a while."

Cody shook his head, more with resolution than disbelief. "No," he said firmly. "I don't know him. I know I don't. I would remember something like this."

"How do you know?"

Cody averted his eyes back to the photo, withstanding the sudden gut-wrenching ache of emptiness that took hold of him. He focused on the image of Bailey. "I always remember the pictures I had with Bailey," he said. "Always. I remember every one. That is, except this one…for some reason."

"So som'thin's goin' on, then, man," TJ declared. Cody could hear the fear in his voice. TJ was scared out of his wits. "Som'thin's goin' on for sure."

"Yeah, something is." _I already knew that, though, TJ. Even before you came here, I already knew that. The only thing that's changed is that now I have a witness_. _A way to get the truth._

"What d'ya plan on doin'?"

As if coming to a quick, spontaneous decision, Cody said, "I'm going to get some answers." Then he stood up. "I've got to call Bailey. Now."

He hadn't wanted to get her involved anymore than she had been already. But he knew he had to. He had no other choice.


	4. Broken Hearts and The Media

**Sorry it took so long to update. I decided to hold this story off until I was finished with "Boy, Disrupted" (which, I'm happy to say, is officially completed!) **

**It may have felt like I forgot about this story but believe me, I haven't. Here is chapter 4. It's more about Bailey than Cody, just so you know. She's an important character in this story.**

**Also, after reading this chapter you may feel some disdain for Cody. I'm not going to spoil anything, but I'll go ahead and say this: there is much more to what happened than you know! *wink* **

**As always, enjoy! And review! :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**The Suite Life **_**series. **

_So he did it_. _He actually did it. _

_I can't believe him._

_Actually, I can…but I don't want to. _

Bailey scowled at the opened notebook lying on the table before her, wanting so badly to chuck it across the room. Her therapist had told her that journaling would help, but it had been almost three months already and she hardly had anything beyond a two pages written. "This is hopeless!" she snapped miserably.

Part of her _wanted_ to write—to let her thoughts and feelings pour out of her like a geyser, but the other part wouldn't let her because it was realistic enough to know that writing wouldn't help. There were no words to describe what she thought. How she felt.

She closed the notebook and sat there staring at it. Memories from the day before plagued her mind.

She'd gone outside to get the mail at four in the afternoon (the mail usually came at three but she had been too tired and distraught to get it earlier). As she made her way to the mailbox, trudging as though her legs could barely carry her, she thought about her and Cody's last argument. It had happened five days previously when Cody had shown her an advertisement for Lacunar Inc., a health service that specialized in the all-new groundbreaking process of "willful memory loss"—or, as it was labeled by professionals, "Lacunar amnesia." The loss of memory for one particular event or thing.

The procedure was said to have some kinks in it. There had been a few near-death cases that had drawn both the press and the public to question it. Not to mention, it also had massive opposition coming from religious groups. One preacher even stated in an interview on Fox news that Lacunar Inc. was an abomination and anyone who took part in its "evil" was dooming themselves to hell. "Everything happens for a reason," he declared. "Our memories serve a valuable purpose. They may be bad memories, but that doesn't give us the right to get rid of them. We can't play God like that."

The whole thing was a rave for the media. There were scientists praising it, church members condemning it, liberally religious people deeming it acceptable in certain situations…

It was a cat fight. A potential blood bath.

It had almost become a war once. On the procedure's opening day—the day it had officially become a service to the public—a group of Methodist extremists had considered it the will of God, as well as their "personal privilege as God's advocates" (they actually called it that on CNN), to make a statement about the abomination using violence. The head of the corporation, John Wilkinson, along with a posse of his trusted scientists and business associates, made an appearance outside the first Lacunar Inc. clinic ever built to give his service a presentation speech. About a third of the way through it, a gun went off, followed by several others. There were thousands of people present—and thousands more watching from inside their homes—and everyone started to panic. Once the police came and put an end to the chaos, it was discovered that two of the business associates, six of the scientists, and John Wilkinson himself, had all been shot.

There was an investigation done and it was determined that the culprits were radical believers of the Methodist faith who had armed themselves with hidden pistols and waited until their leader—the minister of their church—had fired the first shot. Their intention, as they put it, was "not to promote murder but to right a grievous wrong that had been done to society."

Everyone was in a frenzy about it afterward. It encompassed everything—talk shows, the news, magazines, awareness groups, politics, the gossip-filled lives of common citizens…everything. And it was viewed from many different angles; atheists and loosely religious people went on and on about the injustice to Wilkinson and his men, whereas a few stricter religious people sympathized—at least to a degree—with the culprits.

"They were acting out of devotion for their faith!" one person would remark.

"Since when does devotion for faith justify murder, or even call for murder?" another would ask incredulously.

"Never, but that is not the point!" would retort the first. "The point here is not so much actions as it is intentions. What they did may not have been justified—I'm not saying it is—but I think we should try to see things from their perspective before simply condemning them as cold-blooded killers. Most of those perpetrators had never even picked up a gun let alone shot one."

"Actually, I believe the first word of what you said is untrue," would add a third. "It doesn't 'never' call for murder. In fact, there are many instances in the Bible where God _ordered_ people to commit what we would call murder."

"What does the Bible have to do with anything?" the first would question. "How is that relevant to this discussion?"

"These people are firm believers in the Bible. In their eyes, what they did was no different than what some of God's loyal followers did in the past. It may be different for _real_, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that they believe their God wanted them to kill Wilkinson and his men, and they are far more afraid of displeasing him than they are of being ridiculed by us."

And on and on it would go.

And that wasn't even the half of it. There were countless more debates. Everyone was ranting and raving about the new battle between religion and science. And to top it off, some paranoid people were going around swearing that it would bring about the end of the world—either by means of one side being victorious over the other and dominating the world, or by means of both sides killing each other off.

It was insane. Utter craziness.

Neither Bailey nor Cody had wanted anything to do with it. They were both moderate believers of science _and_ religion and didn't want to involve themselves in the clash between the two. To them, the whole thing felt miles away.

But it hadn't stayed that way. After the fire, Cody had changed. He was no longer the bright-eyed, sensible, idealistic boy Bailey knew and loved. He was cold. Hardened. Emptied. He acted as though he had nothing and no one to live for.

After his release from the hospital, he'd lay in bed all day, either screaming and trembling in his sleep, or sobbing uncontrollably into his pillow.

She'd tried to be sympathetic. She really did feel sorry for him; he'd suffered through so much. But sometimes, it was difficult. There were moments when the screaming and wailing drove her up the walls—when they gave her a headache and made her want to pull Cody out of bed, slap him around a little, and tell him to shut up.

She never did, of course. She'd only thought about it now and then.

He did get up eventually, but he didn't revert back to his usual self. If anything, he became colder. He started fighting with her constantly.

They'd had plenty of fights before. They'd been officially broken up for over a week, and even before then, their relationship had pretty much dove for the rocks. But these fights were more intense. More violent. They argued over the smallest things, and turned them into big deal. They argued without shame or discrimination. They argued at night, during the day, in public, in private…anywhere and anytime they _could_ argue.

They argued more in the two weeks since the fire than they ever had when they were dating.

Then came their last argument—the one Bailey mused over as she traipsed toward her mailbox that afternoon. The one that took place when Cody eventually decided he'd had enough and made a quick, spontaneous decision.

One day, after coming back to her apartment from her last class, she found Cody already there (she'd given him a spare key in case he needed to get in when she was out). He was slumped over on her couch, clutching a brochure in his hands. When she entered he looked up and met her eyes. "I need to tell you something,"

Instantly, she knew something was wrong. She waited for him to continue.

"I can't live like this anymore, Bailey. The bickering, the fighting, the moving on. I can't take it. It's too much for me. I'll die if I don't do something about it. So I"—he glanced down at the brochure—"I've made a decision."

Bailey took the brochure from him and looked at it. It was an advertisement for Lacunar Inc., complete with an address, a phone number, a website, and an email. A cleared mind, it promised. A higher quality of life, devoid of painful memories.

At first, she couldn't believe it. "This is your solution? To just erase everything and pretend like it never happened?"

"You think I want to do this?" he asked incredulously. "You think I want to forget about him? I don't have a choice!"

"That's not true! You _always_ have a choice."

"It hurts too much, Bailey. The pain is killing me."

Bailey sighed. "I know it hurts, Cody…but trust me, this isn't the answer. You can't just forget your grief; you have to deal with it. This memory-erasing thing they've got going on is not safe. It's not wise. There's too much of a chance that you'd get hurt. Please, Cody. I already lost your brother; don't make me lose you too."

Cody was silent for a moment. And then all of a sudden, he started to cry. Bailey sat down next to him and pulled him into an embrace.

She held him against her chest until he couldn't take it anymore and wrenched himself away. "No!" he shouted. "You don't know anything about it! How _dare_ you talk about my brother like he meant something to you!"

"He did mean something to me!" Bailey shot back, her voice half-way between yelling and sobbing.

"Not as much as he meant to _me_!" More tears fell from Cody's eyes and journeyed down his face. "You only knew him for a few years, Bailey; I knew him all my life! He was _everything _to me!"

"Then think about what _he_ would want! Forget your grief for a moment and think about what _he_ would want you to do! Do you think he would want you to just erase him like this—to just throw away his memory because he's…he's…?"

"I can't afford to think about what he would want." Cody wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "It wouldn't make a difference if I did. He's gone, Bailey! He's gone, and he's not coming back!"

The argument continued, but Bailey could scarcely remember the rest of it. It was just screaming by that point. Screaming, swearing, and name-calling. They screamed at each other senselessly until neither of them had anything left to say.

By the end, Bailey had given up. "Well, go on then! Go on and do it! Get rid of your memories! Get rid of the one person you loved more than anything! You're a fucking coward, that's what you are! A miserable fucking coward! You're letting your pain kill you; I'm going to live with mine!"

So he left, and she didn't stop him.

She didn't stop him because, deep down, she didn't think he'd do it.

When she opened the mailbox five days later, she found a letter and a magazine inside. The magazine was the newest issue of _National Geographic_, which she had expected, but the letter was somewhat of a surprise. Hardly anyone wrote letters anymore. They'd become a thing of the past since email, texting, and chat rooms took over. Bailey looked intently at the envelope. It was a personal letter from Cody's mom, Carey (which was understandable since she'd never quite gotten the hang of online interaction or typing messages on cell phones).

She opened it quickly and began to read. It was short and frantic.

_Dear Bailey,_

_I just got a call from Cody. You wouldn't believe what he told me. He said he's going to the closest Lacunar Inc. clinic to have his memories of Zack erased. When he told me I was shocked. I just couldn't wrap my head around it. I tried to talk him out of it, but he just wouldn't listen to me! He's determined to do this. He thinks he can make everything better by forgetting his own brother._

_I'm crying now as I write this. I just don't know what to think. I don't know what to do. Bailey, help me! Come talk to me. I'm so scared and angry right now. Losing Zack was devastating, but this is too much._

_Thanks,_

_Carey Martin _

Bailey felt her insides go numb. If he could tell his mother about it, then he must have been serious about doing it…which would mean she had underestimated him. But she couldn't bring herself to accept that. _No, _she thought. _No. Just no. Not Cody._ _Not the optimistic, insightful, rational-thinking Cody._ Their relationship may have fallen apart, and he may have been traumatized and overwhelmed over losing his brother, but he wouldn't do this. He wouldn't have anything to do with those lunatic mind-warping people…would he?

_No, he wouldn't. He's smarter than that._

She shook her head in denial. She'd call Carey and tell her it was nothing to worry about. Her son wouldn't do anything like that—not to the memory of his twin brother.

_People in grief are capable of many things_, warned a voice inside of her. She ignored it.

The following morning, at 9 o'clock, she'd received a call from Cody. She hadn't wanted to speak to him, but answered the phone anyway—out of some combination of masochism, loneliness, and curiosity. She was somewhat shocked and unprepared because he never called her so early in the morning (plus, she wasn't exactly on good terms with him), but she'd snapped her cell phone open and put it to the side of her face nonetheless.

Her words had come out coolly. "Hey Cody,"

"Hey Bailey," he'd replied. Then she listened to him stutter his way through how much he needed to see her and if she could meet him somewhere.

She'd sighed in annoyance but made herself sound reasonable as she declined his suggestion.

He was stubborn however. He'd refused to let up. "I want to see you," he'd said. "I want to talk to you in person."

_Of course you do_, she'd thought bitterly.

He seemed to catch her irritation, even though he couldn't see her, and added, "We don't have to do anything. Just talk."

That was when she'd given in. "Okay. I guess so."

But she was so unsure. If there was one thing she did not want, it was another heated argument.

Sensing her uncertainty, Cody started acting guilty about calling her in the first place and she'd tried to sound convincing when telling him that it was okay. After that, they had agreed to meet at the pier. Fifteen minutes later. It would have taken her less than fifteen minutes to get there, but she wanted time to wake up properly (she was still half asleep) and gather herself.

It was cold outside, but she'd gotten into her car and drove to the pier. When she arrived and saw that Cody wasn't there yet, she went straight to the pier's edge, sat down, and waited for him while gazing out at the mesh of mist and water before her.

He'd been two minutes late—which wasn't bad—but even so, she felt aggravated at him for making her wait. The minutes had seemed to go on for much longer than they were, and by the time she saw him approaching her, her fingers and ears were freezing.

He'd looked ill when she saw him—a pallid face, chapped lips, sunken-in eyes surrounded by a blotchy redness, a lethargic gait. A pitiful, almost ghoulish image. When she first caught sight of him, her impatience vanished for a moment and was replaced by concern. "You look like shit," she'd told him bluntly.

He didn't disagree.

He'd sat down next to her, and then they started talking. He'd woken up with a headache, he said, and felt as though he'd forgotten something.

_What? That's it? That's what he wanted to say? _She actually had to look away in order to properly process that. There was a little voice in her, telling her that something was wrong—that her worst fears had come true—but she disregarded it in the belief that he was being ridiculous."That's what you dragged me here to tell me?" she asked crossly. "That you forgot something?"

It wasn't like forgetting everyday things, he told her. It was like forgetting something _crucial. _Something he never should have forgotten.

And he'd had a splitting headache when he woke up.

_Welcome to my world, _Bailey thought resentfully. "Are you sure you didn't just go on another drinking spree last night?" She had to bring that up. The urge was too strong.

Once the words were out of her mouth, though, she regretted them.

Still, she refused to see his memory problem as anything other than natural forgetfulness. She couldn't allow herself to assume otherwise. This was Cody she was talking to.

"I suppose I _could_ have," Cody had consented. "But I don't think so." He explained that it wasn't like being hung over, but rather like something was erased—wiped from his memory.

He told her it was freaking him out.

Bailey felt her stomach muscles tighten and her eyebrow raise as she formed a look of concern and suspicion. _No, Cody…you didn't. You wouldn't. _

She could tell that he was scared. And immediately, she became scared too. She began breathing heavily as her fears paraded through her consciousness, and again, she had to look away. She turned her face toward the open water before her, taking it in despite how intimidating it appeared in the gloomy weather.

She wanted to cry but knew she couldn't. She swallowed down a huge lump before managing to speak but her words came out gradually and with care: "Cody, I want…"_—No, scratch that_—"I need to ask you a question."

"Um, okay," Cody agreed, hesitant.

"Do you remember the day we broke up?"

She didn't want to reminisce on that day any more than he did, but she was compelled to know how much of it he remembered. It was the only way she knew of to figure out how serious his memory loss was.

"How could I forget?" he snapped angrily. "You told me you didn't want anything else to do with me, and then later called me up and begged that we stay friends. And I was masochistic enough to say yes."

That cut her, deeply. Yes, she _had_ wanted to stay friends with him, but she'd also expected him to have the decency to acknowledge her pain too, rather than just his own. "That's not what I'm getting at!" she retorted. "I'm not trying to bring up the gritty details—" It was true, she wasn't.

"Then what _are_ you getting at?" Cody interrupted her.

She felt her patience slip. Talking to him about this was damn near impossible. "If you don't interrupt me, I'll tell you!"

Cody took a deep breath and apologized. Bailey forgave him. What she was getting at, she told him, was what he recalled _other_ than the obvious. What he remembered about _why_ they'd broken up.

He wanted to know what that had to do with his problem.

_Perhaps everything, _she thought. "Just answer" she said.

He gave her a simple reply—a rundown of the bare basics: "I remember you and me fighting over what our plans were—our plans for the future. You had plan A and I had plan B; you hated plan B and I hated plan A, and it just all fell apart from there. That's what I remember, happy?"

The "happy" part was to spite her for making him go into that.

Bailey's heart broke. More. It had been broken already but now it felt shattered. _God forgive me, I should have stopped him. _

For the third time, she averted her concentration from Cody and rested it on the water. Tears pricked her eyes. "Do you remember the fire?" she asked. She had no idea how she was able to speak without choking on her words, but she thanked her lucky stars that she was.

Suddenly, Cody looked sick. His face twisted into a horrible grimace and his eyes squinted as though he was in horrible pain. "Yeah," he said, his voice barely audible. "Yeah, I remember the fire."

_Thank God, _she mentally sighed. In retrospect, that reaction may not have been appropriate, but the fact that he at least remembered that much was a good sign. "Do you…do you remember any of the specifics?" Guilt overcame her as she asked that question, but she felt obligated to. She was determined to know if he'd done it…if he'd gone that far.

"I remember everything," he answered.

She wondered what he meant by "everything" but she didn't comment.

"I remember how, afterward, you and I fought like crazy."

_So he remembers the fights. _That was another good sign, but part of her felt bad for being relieved. She glanced down at her shoes, examining the laces that had long since been coming unraveled. "A lot of people died in that fire, Cody," she said blankly, trying to block out pictures of the catastrophe as they marched into her mind. There was one image that was particularly heinous—one that had stayed with her more than the others and haunted her dreams. Another lump formed in her throat as it came back to her, baring itself like a phantom.

She decided to use it to her advantage. It was a sure way of finding out whether Cody had done what he said he would do: "I saw this one kid holding his dead brother in his arms." _I can't believe I just brought that up. "_It was the most tragic thing I could have ever imagined. The most horrible thing. I'll never be able to forget it, no matter how many times I try to."

To that, Cody said something that stunned her: "You can't let a memory rule you."

Bailey felt a sob try to escape her. She couldn't start crying. Not now. This was the worst time to cry. The sob was persistent; the tears in her eyes stung. Yet, she managed to compose herself. "But it was just so…horrifying," she added. "How could something like that…?" Despite her self-control, her sentence got caught in her throat and she couldn't retrieve the rest of it.

Luckily, she didn't have to. Cody already knew where it had been going. "I don't know. No one knows stuff like that," he said, reaching over and rubbing her back.

Bailey looked up at him and found his eyes. They were full of sympathy and confusion rather than pain and longing like they had been before. And she knew—even before she braved her next comment—that he had done it: "I could only imagine the pain that poor boy went through, losing his brother."

She wasn't surprised when Cody shrugged and declared that he wouldn't know, but her heart plummeted when he said, "I've never had a brother." He said it blatantly, without any hint of deception.

She could no longer hold in her sobs. Her inner stronghold had been torn down and the top half of her body drooped over weakly as she dissolved into a mass of tears.

Cody gently drew her towards him and wrapped her in his arms. He held her silently as she wailed, not fully understanding what had come over her, but not caring either way. After several minutes went by, Cody suggested they leave. It was getting even colder and if they stayed out much longer they could catch their death.

She agreed with him. So they untangled themselves, got to their feet, and went down to their cars.

Once Bailey was inside hers, she started the engine, turned on the heat, and sat there for a moment, relishing the sensation of warm air wafting over her as she mentally got a hold of herself. _So he did it. He really did it. _She didn't want to believe it, but she had to.

There was nothing else to believe in.

When she got home, she listened to the messages on her answering machine, seeing that she'd received some while she was gone. One was from her therapist, reminding her of her session later on that week (he was conscientious that way); another was from her mother in Kansas, asking how she was and begging her to call sometime (as she'd been really bad about staying in touch with her family lately); the third, and last, was from Lacunar Inc.

"Hello," said a deep, formal male voice, "this is Roger Lawrence calling from the Boston Lacunar Incorporated clinic. I am pleased to inform you that Cody Martin has undergone our memory loss procedure in hopes of ridding himself of memories concerning a Zachary Martin. It is my honor to inform you that the procedure was a major success; he is completely stabilized and well. However, due to the fragility of his brain, he should refrain from exerting himself physically for a few weeks and should be encouraged to drink fluids. Also, he may appear pallid and ill for a while; this is common and perfectly natural, so please do not be alarmed. Simply have him to go about his daily life as he normally would without an excess of physical activity." There was a pause. Bailey waited, her whole frame numb and statuesque. "Furthermore, you must _not_ give any mention of Zachary Martin. This is imperative as Cody no longer knows who Zachary Martin is. When you converse with him, you must not speak of—or offer any hint of—Zachary Martin's existence. Remember that. There is no Zachary Martin, and there never was. If you have any questions or comments, please call 617-781-5572 for information. Thank you. Good-bye."

There was a beep, but Bailey didn't hear it.

She stood in front of her phone, motionless, her brain trying to register what she'd just heard. It was nothing she didn't already know; she'd found out that Cody had gone through with it at the pier. Nevertheless, having it confirmed by a professional over the phone was devastating. It was beyond comprehension.

Bailey didn't know how long she stood there, but eventually her legs began to hurt and she had to sit down. She grabbed her journal (or what was supposed to be her journal) from where it was laying on the sofa and sat with it in front of her at the kitchen table.

Part of her wanted to write like her therapist had advised her to, but part of her knew that was an impossibility. There were no words to describe what she thought. Or how she felt.

She sat there, dazed and disoriented, thinking about her talk with Cody the day before, and the argument that had taken place between them five days before that. Everything had changed. It felt like the world had lost its last speck of hope.

She thought about Cody's twin brother, Zack—the cause of all this. _Why did he have to leave us?_

"There is no Zachary Martin," she said aloud to her empty kitchen. "Not anymore."

A little while later, there was a knock on her door. She didn't want to answer it, but she did anyway.

It was Cody.

She was tempted to ask "What was it like?" but held back because he wouldn't know what she was talking about and she didn't want to scare him into a psychological breakdown.

She couldn't imagine what he wanted. So many emotions hit her at once—resentment over what he had done, hope over what he might say, curiosity over whether he needed something. Overcome with all of them at once, all she managed to mutter was: "Cody?"

His expression was serious and urgent, and his eyes were filled with worry. In his hands he held a photograph. He showed it to her; it was a picture of him, her…and Zack.

"Bailey," he said earnestly, "we need to talk."


	5. You Had A Brother

**Initially after finishing chapter 4 of this story, I was going to work on "Heartsick." But…what can I tell you? I'm on a roll. :) Sorry for another late post, but I recently started college and things have been hectic. In college there's virtually no such thing as free time. **

**I feel I should give my readers some assurance about this story since it has the potential to offend: this story is NOT an attack on religion; nor is it an attack on science. I myself am a supporter of both (I'm a Christian who's going into the field of psychology). If this story is an attack on anything, it's an attack on extremism—on fanaticism. **

**I realize it may seem like Cody learns about the existence of Zack too soon. Bear in mind, this is not a mystery story (although it contains mysterious subject matter :P). It's a drama about how memories help shape us. It's going to focus more on remembering Zack than on losing him. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters that are not on the show. **

"Where did you get that?" Bailey gasped, her eyes wide, her finger pointing toward the photo that was trembling in Cody's hands.

"I found it—or rather, a friend of mine did," Cody replied. "It was in a box hidden beneath my bed, where I keep my photo album."

Bailey's expression seemed a blend of awe, relief, and wonder. She had no idea what to say. Should she tell him the truth and risk shocking him into a breakdown? Should she construct a lie in hopes of preserving his sanity? She remembered the phone call from Lacunar Inc. "_…Cody no longer knows who Zachary Martin is_…_When you converse with him, you must not speak of—or offer any hint of—his existence._" Her heart was saying "truth" but her head was screaming "lie." She desperately wanted him to remember Zack, but at the same time she was terrified of severely damaging him.

She gazed into his eyes to see if she could find her solution there. They were insistent, and they begged her to be straight with him.

She sighed, coming to a quick decision. _Truth it is, _she thought. _Here goes nothing. _"You might want to sit down."

"No, I think I'll stand," Cody said. He loved feeling superior. It was one of his downfalls. He would always say he preferred to stand when someone told him he should sit. It was his way of telling people, "Hey, _I_ know what's best for me."

She rolled her eyes and sighed again, unwilling to argue with him. "Suit yourself."

She cleared her throat, wondering how to say what she was going to say next. _Ah hell, just wing it. The more you contemplate over it, the harder it will be. Just tell him the truth. Say it point-blank. _"You had a brother."

Cody's face went pale—paler than it had been already. It went so pale that it looked ghostly.

"Told you you might want to sit down," she said, somewhat accusingly.

And he did. He stepped over to her couch and plopped down onto it. For a long, unsettling moment, he was silent. He looked from her to the picture, and from the picture back to her, his face a mosaic of disbelief and alarm.

Though on some level, she could tell he knew she was right. He wouldn't have been so stunned otherwise.

"That…that can't be right," he finally stammered. Again, he looked down at the picture. "A _brother_? That's insane. I would have remembered something like that." He felt kind of stupid in having said that, as it was completely obvious.

"It's true," Bailey told him matter-of-factly. "I know it must be hard for you to accept, but you had a brother. His name was Zack—Zachary, but we all called him Zack—and he was your twin."

Cody felt a sudden burst of nausea erupt in his stomach. A twin? He glanced yet again down at the photo, thinking it ironic that, just hours ago, the resemblance between him and the boy in the middle had crossed his mind.

_Wait a second. This doesn't make any sense._

His eyes went from the boy in the middle to his own beaming self. _How in the world could I have known about my twin brother in the past but not now? How could I have forgotten him? Did I take a blow to the head at some point? No, that's ridiculous. A blow to the head wouldn't cause that much memory loss. _

_But then, what gives? What happened? _

_And where the hell is he? If he exists, I want to see him._

Bailey seemed to read his mind. "You can't see him," she added.

"Why?" he asked apprehensively. "Where is he?"

As soon as those words left his mouth, though, he knew the answer. He remembered her asking him at the pier if he remembered the fire, and then stating how she'd seen a boy holding his dead brother in his arms. "He's dead, isn't he?" Despite having no memories of this so-called brother of his, he felt his voice shake with emotion. "He died in that fire."

Bailey said nothing but nodded. A lump formed in her throat and she didn't have the strength to swallow it.

She already knew what he was going to ask next. "You had your memories of him erased," she explained, "by the people who work at Lacunar Incorporated. I told you not to, but…you wouldn't listen. You were in too much grief."

"Oh God…"

As the truth sank in, Cody's head spun.

"Oh…_God…_"

Everything around him blended together into a network of colors as he grew suddenly dizzy. His stomach churned.

_I had a brother. A real brother. I wasn't an only child. I had a twin brother—an actual twin. _

_But he died, and I erased him. I erased him for dying. _

_And now he's gone…forever. _

_What have I done? _

He bent over the side of the couch and retched, but nothing came out.

Then a rush of light-headedness overcame him and in one fell swoop, he fainted.

…

He was besieged by dreams—strange, erratic dreams. He dreamt that he was in a rowboat, drifting off the pier, gazing back at Bailey as she sobbed into her hands and yelled for him to come back; he dreamt that he was sitting in his apartment, looking through his journal when suddenly, the words began to disappear from the pages; he dreamt that he was staring down at the picture of him, Bailey and Zack, and for no particular reason, Zack moved and started talking to him from inside of it, whispering, "Remember me"; then he dreamt of a fire—a colossal fire that encompassed his entire scope of vision, blazing red and hot before him, its smoke billowing against the sky. From somewhere within, he heard wretched screams and wails, accompanied by flashing lights and a siren. There was so much noise and havoc that he had to plug his ears and shut his eyes. _Breathe, Cody, breathe. _

"There's something wrong!" said a woman's panic-stricken voice. "It seems there's a jam in quadrant C!"

"It's probably just a glitch," replied a man. "Ignore it. Continue on as planned."

"Are you sure? I think we should abort."

"Don't abort! I repeat, _don't_ abort! Carry on with the procedure!"

A pause. "But what if—?"

"That's an order!"

Cody's breaths were short and labored. He was scared. _What's happening?_

"Cody!" a familiar voice called to him.

"Help me," he tried to say, but he didn't know if the words came out. He couldn't feel his lips; he had no idea if he could speak.

"Cody!" the voice called again. This time it was clearer, and he could tell that it was Bailey.

He wanted so desperately to reach her. _I'm here, Bailey! I'm right here!_

"Cody, wake up!"

_I'm trying to._

The fire slowly reduced to flickers, and then everything faded to black.

"Cody?"

_I'm coming, Bailey. Hold on!_

"Cody, please wake up!"

_I'm almost there. Almost there. Almost…_

Cody opened his eyes and found himself lying, back-down, on Bailey's couch, Bailey's worried face was staring at him. "You alright?" she asked. "God, you scared the shit outta me." She touched her fingers to his hair and moved a few strands from his forehead. "You're all shiny. You were sweating."

Cody ran his index and middle fingers across the width of his forehead. It was moist and sticky. He grimaced and sat up. "Ugh, I need a shower. Guess that means I should go now." _And I just took a shower this morning. _

"You're welcome to use mine," Bailey said. "You know where it is."

"What would I wear afterwards?"

Bailey looked down sheepishly, folding her hands the way she did when she was going to say something awkward or embarrassing. "I kept some of your clothes."

"You mean the ones I told you to throw away?" Cody heard his voice rise in irritation.

Bailey nodded.

"Damn it, why? I told you to toss those."

Bailey began twiddling her fingers. "I don't know," she muttered. "I suppose I was hoping you'd come back for them."

"Why would I come back for them? I think I was pretty fucking clear when I said I didn't fucking want them!"

"I didn't think you actually _meant _it! I _bought _them for you, for Christ sakes!"

"I know, that's _why_ I didn't want them. That and your taste is fucking tacky!"

Bailey said nothing. She bit her bottom lip so it wouldn't quiver. Tears stung her eyes.

Cody noticed them. "Sorry," he said in a whisper. "I'm just a little outta sorts right now."

"Sure," Bailey replied, blinking the tears away. "I bet you are. Look, why don't you just go take your shower? I'll go get you something to wear."

Cody nodded in agreement. He pulled himself up, wobbling as he got to his feet. The exertion was too much for his body to take and immediately, he came tumbling back onto the couch. His muscles ached; his head felt bloated. He leaned over sideways and began to massage his temples.

"You sure you're alright?" Bailey inquired, this time sounding more skeptical.

"Yeah," he said, though he was not sure himself. "Yeah, I'm alright. Just a little tired is all."

Bailey remembered another part of the phone call: "…_due to the fragility of his brain, he should refrain from exerting himself physically for a few weeks_…" "Maybe you should lie back down," she offered.

Cody shook his head. "No, I think a shower will do me more good than another nap."

He got to his feet again, this time balancing himself against the arm of the couch and waiting until his dizziness subsided before trusting himself to walk. When he made it to Bailey's bathroom and reached up to grab a towel and washcloth from the metal rack bolted to the wall above the toilet, he was overcome by an abrupt sense of awkwardness; this was his first time being inside Bailey's bathroom since their break up. He shivered at the notion of that as he pulled off his pants and boxers and let them slide to his feet, and then took off his shirt and allowed it to slip through his fingers onto the floor. He brought his arms up around his shoulders, instinctively shielding himself from a chill that was rushing through his body. He glanced at himself in the mirror, taking notice of the reddish circles that still rimmed his eyes.

The hairs on his arms prickled. Goosebumps formed. Though the bathroom itself was relatively warm, he felt cold.

As he stepped into the tub and turned on the hot water, he remembered the times when he and Bailey had showered together. Exposed, unprotected, and without a care in the world. As the water pelted him from the nozzle, he remembered the touch of her hands gliding over his skin—everywhere. Shamelessly. And the things she'd whisper in his ear from behind: "I love you"; "You're perfect"; "I want you." She may have been a Southern-raised lady on the outside, but she could be incredibly sexy when she wanted to be.

Cody extracted those thoughts from his mind and concentrated, instead, on the news that he'd just received. _A brother? A twin?_ That alone was hard enough for him to fathom. _Dead from the fire? Lacunar Incorporated? Memories erased? _That was nearly impossible.

Cody wanted to deny it—to deprecate Bailey as a liar and let go of this ridiculous claim. _I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't go that far. What does she think I am, an idiot? Like I would actually believe I had a brother—a twin brother that I willingly forgot about. That's just crazy. I can't believe she told me that… I can't believe I bought it. _

_Either she's gone off the deep end or I have. _

He remembered the picture; a mental image of it emerged into focus in his mind's eye and he couldn't look away. He recollected the details—the likeness in the eyes, the lips, the hair; the comfortable, protective posture with the entwined arms that seemed to say, "This is brotherhood."

He remembered his dreams. The boy in the picture—his so-called brother—coming to life as though by magic, whispering, "Remember me."

He remembered earlier, coming back to his apartment after meeting with Bailey at the pier, rummaging through his journals. Seeing the gaps between entries, wondering how and why and when they'd gotten there. Seeing the one passage that ended with: "After I hung up with my mom, I decided it'd be a good idea to call…" And not being able to figure out, for the life of him, just _who _it had been referring to.

He remembered that feeling of forgetfulness—which was pervading his mind even now—and how the picture, as well as the word "slob," had brought that feeling back to him. And how he couldn't determine why that was, even though part of him sensed that the object of his memory loss was a person rather than a thing.

He remembered TJ's question—"You got a brother?"—and the sincerity in Bailey's voice when she told him that he did; he remembered the Methodist minister, Reverend Conroy, making allegations against his soul; he remembered Bailey crying at the pier, right after he told her he'd never had a brother.

And then he remembered waking up in the morning with a headache, looking like a zombie.

These memories came to him like cars on a train, one following right after the other, rolling, out of his control, across his consciousness. As they came, he cried.

He balled his hand into a fist and pounded the wall. Hard. Once, twice, three times, four times. Then he brought his head down against it, the nozzle spraying his back, and tried to breathe—gasping between each of his sobs. His knuckles throbbed but he didn't care.

He heard a thump on the bathroom door. "Cody, what the hell is going on in there?" asked Bailey's muffled voice above the patter of the water.

"Nothing," he choked back.

"Are you okay?"

A pause. Cody tried to swallow down his sobs and get a hold of himself.

The question came again: "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he replied.

"I got you some clothes to wear. I'll leave them here by the door."

"Okay."

Another pause. "Cody?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I didn't throw them away."

Cody didn't answer. He grabbed the body wash sitting on the edge of the tub and the washcloth he'd placed next to it and began lathering himself up.

He was overcome by chills again. He bent over and turned the cold water knob backwards, lessening it, making the water almost as hot as he could stand.

When he got out, his skin was pink. In the mirror, he no longer looked like a corpse.

…

Cody didn't know why Bailey insisted he eat something. It wasn't like he'd be able to keep anything down. Ever since that morning, his stomach had been in a constant state of nausea. Eating was virtually out of the question. So he stared, unwaveringly, at the biscuit on his plate, part of him wanting to eat it and knowing he should, but the other part refusing to out of fear and practicality.

"Cody, you need to eat," Bailey urged him. "I know you're upset, but you can't just go without food."

Cody snorted. "Yeah," he said sardonically, "that's what I am. _Upset_."

Bailey sighed. "Okay, that was the wrong word. But still, your body needs nutrition. You'll make everything worse if you don't eat."

"How could things be worse?"

"Gee, let's see..."

Cody could tell that Bailey was about to give him a very snarky remark, and although he knew he deserved it, he couldn't bring himself to hear it. He was already feeling bad enough. "Never mind," he cut her off. "Don't answer that. I know."

Fortunately, Bailey let it go and moved on. "So…what are you going to do now?"

Cody shrugged, his eyes still on his biscuit. "What _can _I do?"

Bailey shrugged in response. It was all unclear now. The truth was out, but neither of them knew where to go from here. The past was behind them and they could not change it, but now more than anything they wished they could. They wished they were not sitting together as they were, under bad terms, discussing something that had appeared so remote and unimportant to them before but had now become the source of their predicament.

It felt so surreal. So strange. Like a nightmare they couldn't wake up from.

"Why didn't you stop me?" Cody finally asked, breaking the silence that had suddenly befallen them.

Bailey knew perfectly well what he was talking about. "Would you have listened to me if I'd tried to?"

Cody didn't know the answer to that. He hated to think what he would have done. He felt like a stranger in his own body; he no longer knew who he was or what he was capable of. "Answer my question first," he snapped, hoping to elude hers altogether.

Bailey breathed and folded her hands on the table in front of her, obviously something she picked up from her therapist (Cody knew full well about him). "I think…I think, deep down, I believed you would stop yourself," she said honestly. "I didn't want to admit to myself that you would really go through with it. It seemed so unlike you—or, at the time it did." She furrowed her eyebrow at him in accusation. "Guess I underestimated you."

Cody felt a surge of guilt swell inside of him. Encompassing every cell in his being. He gazed at Bailey, not knowing what to say to her. He figured she wanted him to answer her question now, but he hadn't the faintest idea how to do so. How could he know whether or not he would have listened to her? He was a mystery to himself now. There was nothing about him—nothing about his personality or nature—that he knew for certain anymore. _I was a brother. What next? _

_For all I know, those people at Lacunar Inc. could have taken something else from me. _

_If so, what?_ _How can I find out?_

_And is there a way to get my memories back? Could I ever remember my brother again?_

_My brother…Zack. _The name splintered his throat. Accompanying it was the feeling of forgetfulness, raging war on his internal organs.

He knew now with absolute certainty that everything Bailey told him had been the truth. It had to be; it made everything that had been so puzzling and bizarre to him fall into place.

And he could trust Bailey. If anything, she was honest.

"I guess so," he said in response to her comment, hating himself for feeling the need to. Hating himself even more for knowing he was right. Bailey _had_ underestimated him, just as he had overestimated his misery. And here he was, reaping the consequences of both their mistakes.

As his hate expanded, his hand squeezed into a fist. His bruised knuckles pulsated with pain but that only enticed him to make his fist tighter. He deserved the pain, he thought. He deserved the ache, because it was all his fault. He'd done something stupid, which had in turn destroyed everything he held dear—his friendship with Bailey, his honor and dignity, his identity, the memory of a loved one…his relationship with his mother. He thought back to when he'd tried to call his mother and she didn't answer; surely she knew about what he'd done, and if she didn't it wouldn't be hard for her to find out.

Tears stung his eyes. _I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself…my God, I'm so fucking stupid…I hate myself, I hate myself… _

Admitting the truth to himself was comforting. But the question still remained, what was he to do now? He couldn't very well just act normal after all this. Too much had changed. Too much had been distorted. But if he couldn't act normal, how else could he act? How else could he conduct his life without it lingering in the shadow of regret?

Or would it always linger, regardless of what he did?

Could he live with this kind of regret? Could living with the fact that he wiped his twin brother from his memory be any better than living with the grief of losing him? Could he ever come to forgive himself for choosing between them?

No. He couldn't.

"I have to get in touch with Lacunar Inc.," he said, this time with resolve and purpose.

Bailey was taken aback by his sudden firmness. "What good would that do?" she questioned. "What's done is done."

"I have to get my memories back," he replied.

"I'm sure that's impossible. After they're extracted, who knows where they go."

Cody's fist constricted, his nails biting into the flesh of his palm. He relished the pain. "I still have to try." His insistence was unremitting. "I have to do _something_ to fix this."

Bailey shook her head, more out of fear than disagreement. "You won't be able to, Cody. Your memories are gone. They're gone for _good. _That's what those scientists at Lacunar-fuck-your-head do; they _erase _them. Once they're erased, you can't get them back."

"Well then what would you have me do?" Cody asked in irritation. "Nothing? Just sit back and say, 'Oh well. Big fucking deal'? I can't do that, Bailey! Those people erased my _brother_!"

"Because you _wanted _them to!" Bailey hollered. "This is your mess, Cody! I told you not to go through with it, but you did anyway!"

"I know," Cody promised her. "I know and I'm sorry. You were right and I was wrong. I should have listened to you, Bailey. This is all my fault, I admit that. But that's why I have to fix it….or _try_ to fix it. I can't just stand by and let nature take its course. I can't live with myself that way—not now that I know about Zack's existence. He's my twin brother."

"You don't even remember him," Bailey stated matter-of-factly.

"I want to," Cody responded.

They were both silent for a while, each of them considering their options. Bailey couldn't deny that she was somewhat happy that Cody wanted to remember Zack. She felt as though her boy was back—the boy who'd vanished after his brother's death and was replaced by a tormented maniac willing to go to any lengths to rid himself of his anguish. The thought of Cody being himself again was nearly enough to elate her.

But not quite.

She was dominated by fear—fear of what could happen to her now. In revealing the truth to Cody, she had broken rules, and God only knew what that could entail. "…_you must_ not _give any mention of Zachary_ _Martin_," the man from Lacunar Inc., Roger Lawrence, had instructed her. It was _imperative _as Cody no longer had any recollection of him.

_Too late, _Bailey thought. Part of her was proud to think that; she wasn't a supporter of Lacunar Incorporated anyway and the notion of rebelling against them was to some extent pleasurable. But the other part—the more sensible one—was worried. Suppose they found out about her defiance. What would they do? Could she be arrested? The company was backed up by the federal government, so it seemed possible. And what if she was arrested? What would they do to her? Throw her in a federal penitentiary and leave her there to rot?

"Hey, are you okay?" Cody asked, disrupting the silence when he noticed her unease.

"You can't confront Lacunar Inc.," she told him.

"Why not?"

Instead of giving him a straight answer, she said, "I want to show you something."

"What is it?" Cody inquired as she stood up and walked over to her phone, although he already figured she wouldn't reply.

She pushed the "Play" button on the cradle of her phone and deleted the first two messages—one from her therapist and the other from her mom. When the third came on, she left it alone. "Listen," she ordered, and Cody did.

He heard the message she'd received from Lacunar Inc.

When Roger Lawrence stopped talking and the resounding beep signified that the message was over, Bailey turned around to see Cody gaping at her, his mouth forming a near-perfect "o." "That's why you can't confront Lacunar Inc., Cody," she explained. "I don't know what they'd do to me if they found out."

Cody closed his mouth and briefly looked down at his untouched biscuit. "You went against them by being honest with me," he said simply, knowing already that it was the truth.

Bailey nodded.

When Cody looked back up at her, he bore a distraught expression on his face. "I'm so sorry."

Bailey shifted her weight from one foot to the other—something she did sometimes when she felt uncomfortable. It didn't seem like an entirely bad thing that Cody was sorry. As far as she was concerned, he should be; it was because of his decision to get his memories erased that they were in this mess in the first place.

Nevertheless, his feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to help matters. His self-pity was worse than his anger. "Don't worry about it," she told him. "Let's just focus on the here and now."

Cody lifted his elbows onto the tabletop and leaned his head into the palms of his hands. _What to do. That was still the question._

After another silent moment, he still hadn't come up with anything.

"Maybe you should go," Bailey finally suggested, clearly getting antsy.

Cody understood. "Alright," he agreed, standing up.

"Oh, and before you leave," Bailey added. She pointed to the untouched biscuit. "Finish that."

Cody almost smiled at her bossiness. He sometimes missed it, even though it had driven him up the wall when they were dating. "Whatever makes you happy," he said, picking it up off the plate and shoving it into his mouth.

He ate it in two bites, right in front of Bailey, and then went over to where she'd sat his white shirt, jacket, and jeans. She'd taken the liberty to wash them while he was in the shower, and now they were folded in a paper bag on the back of the couch. Cody grabbed them. "Thanks Bailey!" he called to her over his shoulder.

"No problem!" she called back, and then came running to him. "Wait, I almost forgot…" She handed him a small, rectangular card with black print on it. "I checked your pockets before I put your clothes in the wash machine," she explained. "And I found that."

Cody looked at it. It was the card Reverend Conroy had given him.

Suddenly, an idea hit him. "Bailey, I need to borrow your phone," he said.

"Why?" she wanted to know.

Cody gazed down at the phone number printed on the card, memorizing it. "I need to make an important call."


	6. Holy Mission

**Originally, I had finished this chapter sooner. But thanks to my computer crashing and all my saved data getting deleted, I had to write it all over again. :( Oh well, I learned a valuable lesson: always save work in more than one place! The good thing about this, though, is that I like this version of the chapter better than the one I had before…so thankfully it all turned out okay. **

**Sorry it took such a long time for me to update. College has been driving me bonkers. It's been one project/assignment right after another. Total chaos! Anyway, hope you all enjoy chapter 6. **

**Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think. ;) **

Cody shivered at the sound of Reverend Conroy's sinister voice as it projected through the receiver of Bailey's apartment telephone: "Might I ask who this is?"

Judging from his tone, Cody figured the reverend already knew who it was but wanted an introduction anyway. _He probably just wants to make me feel awkward. After all, I did tell him to get lost this morning. _"Uh, Cody…Cody Martin."

"Cody!" the reverend exclaimed with noticeably feigned surprise.

Cody rolled his eyes in annoyance, though his stomach was cramping. He wasn't sure if this was such a good idea. It had been a last-second decision; suppose the reverend was able to trace the call back to Bailey's phone. What then? Would he go so far as to blackmail Cody? He seemed pretty urgent about saving his soul earlier, so why not? Why not use an inch when one was given?

"How are you?" the reverend inquired.

"Fine," Cody said simply. "Look, can we…um…can we meet somewhere?" _Why am I doing this? What am I saying? _"I kind of need to talk to you."

"Certainly!" the reverend answered cheerfully. "Why don't you come down to the church on Bennington Street and we can have ourselves a little chat. I'm sure you know which church I'm talking about—the Boston Methodist church here in town? It's not too far from where you live; I'm sure you've seen it."

"Yeah." Cody had seen it, several times. He'd driven past it, taking notice of the congregations held there—groups of people filing out of the building dressed in formal clothing, holding Bibles, greeting each other, praying together, acting like one big happy family. They'd been in the news now and then, mostly because they were Methodists who were against Lacunar Inc. and people of that sort had already made a name for themselves with the public. "I'll be there. What time you wanna meet?"

"Oh, how about now? I'm in the church at this very moment. Just drive down at your earliest convenience."

"Okay," Cody agreed. "Okay, I'll be there in a few…"

"I look forward to seeing you again."

_What should I say? Should I tell him the truth? No, probably not. _"Yeah, you too. See ya."

He hung up.

Stuffing the card into his front pocket, he turned to face Bailey, who gazed at him with a mixed expression of nervousness and curiosity. "So, you're going to meet with him?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Cody confirmed, "at the church on Bennington Street. I'm going to drive down there now. I should be back in about an hour or two; I don't plan on staying long."

Bailey looked about her, trying with determination to hide her uncertainty. "Are you sure this is wise?" she questioned. "I mean, what do you really know about that guy? Do you think he can be trusted?"

"I don't know," Cody admitted, which made Bailey's jaw drop. "But I'm willing to chance it. I don't have any other choice. I need to know more about Lacunar Inc."

"Why don't you just look it up on the Internet? They've probably got, like, a million websites."

Cody shook his head. "That won't be good enough. All we'd find is advertisements. We need some solid _inside _information…from one of its enemies." Cody could tell that she was not convinced; he understood why, though he was adamant in his resolve. "We're basically on the same side," he continued. "This guy despises Lacunar Inc.—I know he does—and right now, I ain't too fond of them either. This guy may be my only chance of getting _real _answers. He might be a dick—judging from what I've seen, he probably is—but I think if he felt I hated Lacunar Inc. as much as he does, he'd trust me enough to confide in me. He's my best bet, because I can't go to the clinic itself; I can't endanger you like that. Not after what you've done for me. If I spill the beans about what I know, who knows how far they'd go?"

Bailey's eyes went to the floor as her head mulled his words over.

"I have to know, Bailey," he told her firmly. "I have to know about my brother. And I can't just rely on people like you telling me things about him…not if there's a way that I can remember him myself."

Slowly, Bailey's eyes lifted from the floor and met his. "And you think this reverend guy can help you with that?"

"That's what I'm going to find out."

…

Cody didn't take heed to the black van parked across the street from Bailey's apartment, although it did look rather conspicuous. Hardly anyone drove black vans, and virtually no one drove vans with tinted windows or extra antennas. Inside of it sat two men—one bundled up in a tan parka, sitting in the front passenger's seat with a steaming cup of mint tea in his hands, and the other dressed in a black Spiewak jacket, facing out the opened window of the driver's seat, equipped with a small, advanced camera in one hand and a transceiver in the other. The former was waiting patiently to leave; the latter was taking pictures.

Pictures of Cody.

They worked for Lacunar Inc. and were hired specifically to "keep watch" of him. For what, they did not know. Nor did they care, so long as they were getting paid. And they were getting paid a substantial amount. They couldn't complain about that. Money spoke louder than reasons.

The man in the Spiewak watched carefully as Cody exited the apartment building, snapping a few shots of him as he obliviously made his way to his car. "He just left the building," he said matter-of-factly into the transceiver. "He's going to his car."

"Roger that," came the voice of his boss on the other end. "Does he look suspicious?"

He tried to zoom in on Cody's face (which was a difficult task because his face was turned at an angle) and snapped close-ups of his profile, trying to capture him at just the right time. He couldn't detect any particular emotions so he responded to his boss with a "Negative."

Cody got into his car and started to drive away.

"Okay, he's leaving now," the spectator informed his employer. "Do you want me to follow him?"

"Affirmative!" his boss replied. His voice was fervent and commanding. "Find out where he's going and tell me. And remember, _do not _draw attention to yourself. Lay low!"

"You got it." Gradually, the man began to pull out of his parking space. Cody's car was already at the edge of the road, his red turn signal flashing in the direction that would take him further into town. The man turned on his own signal and followed Cody out of the parking lot.

He drove several paces behind him (tailgating would have been a dead giveaway that something was up), wondering if he had taken any notice to the van behind him—if he had seen it while it was parked and was curious about who was driving it.

_He doesn't know, _the man told himself. _He can't know. How would he? You work for Lacunar fucking Inc.—one of the largest industries in the world. You're a master of disguise. _

_He doesn't know jack shit. _

"Can you turn the heat on?" asked his partner crankily. "I'm freezing my ass off."

He didn't move a muscle. He kept his hands firmly on the wheel, his eyes solely on Cody's bumper.

"Hey, are you deaf?"

"What?" he said, pretending he hadn't heard anything.

"I said 'Are you deaf?'" his partner repeated. "Turn the God damn heat on, man! It's like ten degrees in here!"

He sighed and decided to give in. He removed his right hand from the wheel, brought it over to the heat knob, and twisted it until the red marker was all the way over on the other side. Then he pressed the "On" button. "There," he snapped, "now are you satisfied?"

"Yes, God, thank you!" his partner replied, more irritated than grateful.

"Whatever makes you comfortable." _Watch. In five minutes you'll be complaining that it's too hot._

"I can't believe they're making us do this," the man riding shotgun continued. "I mean taking pictures is one thing, but following a guy all the way across town? That's borderline stalking. It's bullshit."

_You're _full _of shit. _

"Not that I need to know _why _I'm following him; I really don't care. But you gotta admit, it's kind of ironic. In most cases what we're doing is a crime."

The man shook his head. _If only they'd allow me to work solo. _

"You know, I wonder what memories this guy got erased."

"What difference does it make?" entreated the driver, inching closer and closer toward exasperation.

"Well, maybe none but…_you_ got a load of him. _You_ saw that he's just a kid."

"So?"

The man's partner shrugged. "So nothing. I'm merely curious." There was a moment's worth of a pause before he carried on: "I bet it was a girlfriend. At his age, there can't be much el—"

"Would you _shut up_!" the man yelled. "God! I don't give two shits what memories he erased—or why we're following him. We're getting _paid_ to do this, so if you would just shut your God damn mouth for one blessed second and help me do our job…" He didn't finish. Realizing that his focus had been averted from Cody's car, he instantly brought it back.

The two men were silent from then on.

They were flabbergasted, to say the least, when they saw Cody pull into the Boston Methodist church. To avoid suspicions, they continued on and made a round-about trip that took them along a back, secondary road, bringing them eventually to a projecting spot that offered a perfect view of the church. They parallel parked along the side of the street and waited.

And watched.

The man who'd driven started talking into the transceiver again, telling their boss what their charge had done.

Their boss was concerned. "A _church_?" he asked tensely.

To the people of Lacunar Inc., the prospect of a customer being connected with a church—or with anything religious—was a bad sign. Religious organizations couldn't be trusted. Their disgust towards the corporation's endeavors made them a liability. They were skilled in the practice of preaching and imposing strong values, and they believed, most adamantly, that users of the Lacunar memory-erasing procedure were lost souls who desperately needed redemption.

"That's right," the observer verified. "You want us to do anything?"

For a moment, all he could hear on the other end was breathing.

When the reply came, it was serious and stern: "When he comes out, take pictures. Take _lots _of pictures."

"No problem." He put down the transceiver, picked up the camera, and gazed expectantly out his window. Hoping only for a good angle on which to shoot.

His partner, who'd been sitting quietly for the past several minutes finally braved a question: "Do you think the girl told him anything?"

"For her sake, I hope not."

…

The Boston Methodist church on Bennington Street was elegant and colossal, with a structure that reminded Cody of Romanesque architecture. There was a silver dome at the top of its steeple on which a figurine crucifix was perched. Several feet below it was a large round clock telling anyone who cared to look that it was close to 2 in the afternoon. There were arched windows aligning the main formation and an assortment of four columns set on either side of the entrance. The entrance was a pair of double wooden doors emblazoned with iron planks.

They were twice the height of Cody. He couldn't help feeling a sense of awe as he past beneath them and went inside.

Upon entering, he found himself at the end of a fairly long hallway with a vaulted ceiling sectioned with wooden cross beams that journeyed down the walls, creating a simple yet appealing design. The floor was covered with a deep red carpet and ornamenting the white walls, at two-foot intervals, were beautiful paintings depicting various events in the life of Jesus Christ. They ranged from his birth to his resurrection and used different color schemes and styles, no doubt intended to draw out certain emotions in the viewer.

Cody followed the hallway until he reached the church's sanctuary. It was stunning; he had to take a second to absorb it all. The room itself was huge and split into two symmetrical halves, separated by an aisle down the center. Each half included a row of about twelve pews, arched windows in the walls, and banners promoting faith. At the front of the room was an altar with a crucifix and two candles, unlit, on the surface. Behind it was a platform on which stood a wooden podium and three chairs.

"Cody!" said a deep voice delightedly.

Cody was so entranced by the room that he hadn't even noticed Reverend Conroy sitting on the very first pew on the right side of the room, looking back at Cody with a mixed expression of surprise and elation. It was quite odd seeing him like that considering how ominous and overbearing he'd appeared during his visit earlier, but Cody merely smiled back. It was best to make this as civil and cooperative as possible.

Then it dawned on him that Reverend Conroy was probably hoping he'd changed his mind about his offer. "I'm not here for you to save my soul," he said honestly. "All I want is for you to tell me about Lacunar Inc."

Reverend Conroy did not seem surprised, though a bit disappointed.

Cody persisted: "I know why you came to talk to me this morning, and let me tell you right now, I don't give a damn about your religious beliefs. The only reason I'm here is because I think you know some things about Lacunar Inc. If you don't, tell me now and I'll leave."

Reverend Conroy stared at him and for a long, silent moment, all that could be heard was the wind blowing outside.

They could almost read each other's thoughts—almost communicate without the use of words. But words had to be spoken; that was why Cody had come, and Reverend Conroy understood that. "Have a seat," he said, patting the open space on the pew next to him.

Cody did, but not there. He went instead to the pew directly behind it and sat nearer to the edge, in case he had to make a quick getaway.

Reverend Conroy raised an eyebrow at him though didn't say anything. "What do you know about Lacunar Inc. already?" he questioned, his face serious and inquisitive.

"Just what I've heard on the news and seen in magazines," Cody replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Reverend Conroy nodded in acknowledgement. "I take it you're aware of the debate about it?"

Cody answered by nodding.

"And what, pray tell, do you think about that debate?"

"I…" Cody felt his throat close. _What to say, what to say. _There were so many feelings going through his head, it was impossible to trace them all."I think it's a very viable debate, sir," he declared. He didn't know where the "sir" came from but he wouldn't even consider taking it back. In a strange way, it seemed necessary.

"Why is that?" Reverend Conroy prodded.

"Because…well, because what Lacunar Inc. is doing is very questionable. I don't think we really know whether or not it's beneficial to society."

Reverend Conroy gave him an encouraging look, obviously urging him to say more.

Cody knew with perfect clarity what he wanted him to say. "I don't think it is." There, he said it. And it was the truth. As sure as the picture of him, Bailey, and Zack was real, every word he'd just uttered was the truth.

Reverend Conroy flashed Cody an approving smile. "I'm happy to hear you say that," he admitted. "You are evidence of our congregation's progress."

"Remember what I said, Reverend," Cody reminded him. "I'm not here for you to save me. I don't _want _you to save me. My coming to you has _nothing_ to do with my being saved. I just need facts." He narrowed his eyebrows and gave the reverend a defiant, don't-fuck-with-me look. "Now that I've answered your questions, it's your turn to answer mine."

Reverend Conroy seemed unaffected. "Very well," he said. "Ask me anything you want. Consider me your friend."

"Thank you." Cody swallowed. _What do I ask first? _"First of all, why does Lacunar Inc. do this?"

"Do you want the short version or the long version?"

"Long." Cody had intended to be out of there as soon as possible, but right now he figured it was more important to acquire all the information he could. It was the perfect opportunity.

"Well, the organization was first created in 2007—" Reverend Conroy began.

"Then how come we didn't start hearing about it just until last year?"

"They stayed underground until they had _perfected_—for lack of a better word—their practice. The founder of the corporation, John Wilkinson, was an avid supporter of neurological research, as well as a doctor of psychiatry. Put those two together and…well, this is what you get."

"Was Wilkinson the one who got shot?" Cody remembered hearing a news story about a well-publicized shooting and the name 'Wilkinson' popped into his memory in association with it.

"Yes," Reverend Conroy confirmed. "He and a couple of his colleagues were gunned down during his presentation speech on Lacunar Inc.'s opening day."

"Did he ever say why he created it?" Cody wondered, more out of curiosity than need.

"The story was that he created it much for the same purpose that hospitals were created—to benefit mankind. To improve our quality of life. I suppose he did, to some extent. It all depends on how you look at it, which is where the _real_ controversy lies." The reverend leaned closer to Cody, as though what he was going to say was a secret. "But here's what only a few people know: John Wilkinson had a son who served in the war with Iraq. When the boy returned, he was suffering from a severe case of post-traumatic stress. He was even put in a mental institution for a while."

"Wait a second," Cody interrupted, "you said that John Wilkinson was a doctor of psychiatry, right?"

"Yes," Reverend Conroy replied.

"Then why didn't he help his son out himself? Why did he allow him to get locked up in a psyche ward?"

"That I do not know. I suspect there were many factors involved," the reverend confessed. "But what I do know is: after his son came home mentally unstable, Wilkinson developed an obsession with memories—more specifically, with the ability to suppress memories. One thing led to another from then on, I'm afraid. Wilkinson dedicated himself to the study of the human brain…which he already knew a fair amount about. But he centered his study on memories. He started his own business, hired researchers, began clinical test runs…by 2011, his research had skyrocketed. All these people wanted memories wiped—past loves, dead children, fights, suicides, murders, rapes…"

"Dead brothers," Cody added in.

Reverend Conroy nodded his head. "You name it, they erased it. Lacunar Inc. became a savior to some people—an icon of hope."

_Apparently, I knew how they felt. _"So it all started because of one man's love for his son?" There was a lump in Cody's throat as he said that.

"Yes," the reverend conceded. "Unfortunately, it did. But even the people with the noblest intentions can do the worst deeds. Perhaps none so dangerous as manipulating the intentions of others. Right now, people see Lacunar Inc. as an opportunity. My job is to revert that way of thinking. That's the primary target of our congregation—to make people see the corporation's true malevolence and evil. We consider that our holy mission."

Cody didn't say anything to that. He had expected for the reverend to direct their conversation towards his own personal religious ambitions; he would have been shocked if he hadn't of. In reaction, he asked another question—one that was bothering him fiercely: "Reverend, how exactly do you know all of this?"

Given that most people didn't know it, Cody assumed he'd went to great lengths to obtain it.

Reverend Conroy gave Cody a somewhat condescending look. "It's like that old saying, 'Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer.' I, for one, like to keep my enemies _very _close."

"That doesn't answer my question," Cody pointed out.

"Perhaps not, but that's the best answer I can give. That…and I have friends in low places."

That sounded frighteningly suspicious, but Cody let it go. No use trying to get deep confessions. The conversation was edgy enough as it was.

The next question Cody asked was one that seemed to come out of nowhere yet be the most important one of all—a question that the reverend was most likely asked by many people, albeit a question that had special significance to Cody: "Reverend…" he swallowed, gathering his strength.

The reverend waited patiently, completely at ease.

"Do you—do you believe that everyoneinvolved with Lacunar Inc. is evil?"

"Certainly not."

Cody was taken aback by that answer. "You don't?"

"No," the reverend clarified. "In fact, I believe many of the corporation's personnel are probably very good people. They just don't understand the impetus of what they're doing. They've been manipulated—"

"Manipulated by what?"

"Many things. The Devil, the blasphemy of others, their own fears and wants. They've been blinded by misguided logic."

"What do you mean by 'misguided logic'?"

Reverend Conroy sucked in a breath and slowly released it. "I understand perfectly well the sting of painful memories," he explained. "I have many of them myself. However, forgetting them—_willingly _forgetting them—is not the solution. We were not meant to have that much control over ourselves. We have our memories for a good reason; we learn by them."

His words elicited a feeling of guilt inside of Cody. _Zack…my brother…my twin…Zack Martin. _The name of his forgotten memory etched itself into his mind and pierced him with ferocity that, until now, he had never experienced. It was so heavy a burden that, for a brief, embarrassing second, he thought he might cry.

Defiantly, he gulped down his sob and continued with the interrogation. "What do you think of the people who shot Wilkinson and his men?" he questioned. "Do you vibe with them?"

"I 'vibe'—as you so well put it—with their anger," the reverend responded. "But I do not condone what they did. Their hearts may have been in the right place, but their methods were deplorable."

That, too, was an astounding answer.

The reverend explained it further: "We have the right and the responsibility to stand against that which we abhor, but that does not give us free reign to take the life of another. Every human life—mind you, _every _human life—is equally valuable. There are no exceptions. Each person, regardless of fault, is a child of God. One child cannot kill another. It doesn't work like that. There is only one right way to battle sin, and contrary to common belief, it is not through violence. Violence begets more violence, you see. And that is where love must step in."

"Love?" Why was that word painful to say?

"Exactly. I am not ashamed to say that I love my enemies. I don't support what they're doing; I openly condemn it. But I love them—as people, as children of the Lord. I would sooner cut off my own arm than hurt any of them."

Cody's jaw dropped. He'd had plenty of expectations about how this conversation would go, but never had he foreseen this. Reverend Conroy did not have a gentle exterior. Just the opposite actually—he gave the impression that he preached only hellfire and damnation. However, what he said rang sincere.

Cody didn't know what to say. So he said no more.

After a moment of silent thought, he managed to thank the reverend for his time and then left the church, feeling cold, baffled, and dazed.

And guilty. The guilt was overwhelming.

As he got into his car and started up the engine, he had a funny feeling that his picture was being taken.


	7. Gods and Soldiers

**This chapter is a little strange given that it's all about the intricate, troubled mind of Reverend Conroy. He's admittedly a difficult character to write—one of the more complex characters I've come up with. Perhaps even more so than George from **_**Boy, Disrupted**_** (though that might be pushing it a little). He's up to individual interpretation so view him however you will. :) Is he really a loving man, or does he simply hide behind the mask of virtue? Does he practice what he preaches, or is he a hypocrite? I feel I should give fair warning: there's not a lot of action in this chapter, or mystery. It's basically a snapshot of Reverend Conroy. **

**This chapter took me forever to write since I had to do a ton of research on the Vietnam War for it, and there's so much information out there. I had to pick and choose. Just so you know, this story is not taking place that far into the future; the year is 2012 and Reverend Conroy is supposed to be in his 60's (he was born in 1947), so don't be surprised by his past. ;)**

**You may be wondering what this chapter has to do with the rest of the story. When you get to the end, I think you'll understand.**

**Also, a bit of news: TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY! I'm officially 21 years old now. It's odd to think I've been alive for 21 years now. My mom was this age when she had me. **

**Enjoy. And please review! :)**

It had been such a surprise to see Cody Martin—such a pleasant surprise. Though at the same time, Reverend Conroy couldn't suppress a feeling of discontent. He'd wanted desperately to save the boy—to see him repent his sins and accept the grace of God. But alas, that would not happen so long as he did not want to be saved. "I don't give a shit about your religious beliefs," he'd said. "I'm not here for you to save me. I don't _want_ you to save me…" He'd looked so genuine, so unyielding.

_Father, forgive him, _the reverend mentally implored. _He needs your guidance. _

If anything, Reverend Conroy pitied Cody. He loved him. He loved him deeply, and he admired him for questioning Lacunar Inc. after having gone through the operation. But he pitied his skepticism and blatant disregard for his own soul. He knew the matter was in God's hands; only God himself decided who was saved, and when. But the reverend sympathized nevertheless. Just as he sympathized for other nonbelievers. After all, it was his mission to get people to see the light—his job, as God's advocate, to lead them in the way of righteousness.

It pained him to see a lost soul, even more than it pained him to see death.

And he'd seen plenty of both.

He hadn't always been a reverend, of course. Though very few people knew what he was beforehand. He didn't talk about his past. With the exception of his boisterous sermons and ardent prayers, he was a quiet man—a man who liked to keep to himself unless he felt the need to spread the word of God (which he'd been doing frequently now with Lacunar Inc. constantly gaining more clientele). He preferred to look to the future, rather than centering his focus on the past. Although, there were times—mostly in the form of nightmares—where he couldn't control himself. Where his past lashed out at him like a maniacal poltergeist and he had no choice but to succumb to its power.

In his past, he'd been many things, the most memorable of which was a soldier—a soldier at the wrong time, in the wrong place. He hadn't wanted to be. He was a victim of circumstance, a sufferer of his own existence. He didn't like thinking of himself that way. No one would. But it was no less true.

In a way, he blamed the 1960's and their radical change. He'd turned 18 during the summer of 1965—right in the heat of the Vietnam War, and not a day went by when he didn't hear about it. It felt so distant from him, so alien and unimportant; yet at the same time, it carried a certain weight.

It seemed senseless. Why Vietnam? Why such a remote place that, before the war, people hadn't even heard about? What was the government trying to accomplish? What were those poor bastards over there fighting for anyway? Nobody seemed to know.

He heard about the casualties: the bombings, the brigade attacks, the death tolls, the threats, the battles. He heard the voices of people on the home front as they spoke of it, the nationalistic people praising it as a necessary siege, the hippies condemning it as mass murder. He heard the news stories and the screams of protests, the lies and the naked truth; he heard about atrocities, as well as the possibilities of what those "unfortunate events" could entail. He heard there was a cause—an undeniable reason for it (though he was never told what that reason was). He heard all of this at once, and he had no idea what was really going on.

Reverend Jonathan Conroy, then known as Johnny, didn't have much to say about the war. It was never on his agenda of things to get involved in. The only thing on his mind was adulthood—settling down, getting a job, finding a girl, getting married…the things he'd been taught to plan. The prospect of being a soldier rarely crossed his mind until he reached 18.

He'd lived a simple life. His parents had been farmers in the state of Virginia and he, along with his four younger siblings, had been raised to appreciate and expect the simple things in life. He'd had a humble childhood, and perhaps an even humbler adolescence. He did his fair share of rebelling, just like any other normal teenager, but his adolescent years were also when he'd gotten in touch with religion. He'd always been religious, but not as devout as he was then. Partly it had to do with the death of his leukemia-stricken younger sister, but it was also an awakening in and of itself. He'd seen himself in a whole new light—a more fragile, more mortal light. Brighter, and possibly more beautiful, but more susceptible to being snuffed out. It was during his adolescence when he started to become passionate in his religious belief system.

It was also during that time when he'd received his crucifix necklace—a silver cross studded with red stones dangling from a chain that he kept firmly around his neck. It was a birthday present and had cost his parents a good paycheck or two since the stones were real, but he'd treasured it.

He knew many other people who had such symbolic necklaces but didn't live by them. It seemed commonplace that people would fancy themselves Christian but not live like one. Hypocrites, his mother had called them. Liars. They were the ones who were "loosely" religious, the ones who wanted to pick and choose which parts of the Bible to believe in. The ones who only prayed when they wanted something or did something wrong but never cared to thank God for what they already had. The ones who twisted the scriptures to fit their personal desires and turned to science when their questions weren't directly answered.

Jonathan wasn't like that. He made many mistakes. He did drugs, incited fights, lied, cheated, pursued girls who were already taken, and plenty more. But unlike others who tried to justify their misdeeds, he always owned up to his. He would kneel at the side of his bed, his heart full of remorse, and tell God he was sorry. And then ask God to forgive him for being blind and bad and ungrateful for everything he'd freely been given.

Fear of hell, it was. Fear of _going_ to hell—of being thrown into some fantastical flaming pit and left to burn there for eternity.

Ironically, for him hell would be nothing like that at all.

It would be a place on Earth.

His parents were in a constant state of panic after he received the draft. They'd already lost one child and fate seemed more than cruel enough to take away another. His mother cried when she saw the paper in his hands ordering him to report for a physical exam. She just plopped down on her bed and started sobbing. She wasn't surprised—just angry and scared. His father stood in the doorway, stiff and silent, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes gazing at his son in scrutiny, as though trying to picture him in battle.

If there was anyone who knew battle, it was his father. The man had stormed Omaha Beach on D-Day and had lived to tell the tale. Jonathan Conroy looked into his eyes and saw only fear. Fear…and perhaps a little bit of resentment.

Jonathan Conroy couldn't deny that part of the reason he'd become a soldier, rather than trying to pull some sort of tactic like homosexuality or self-mutilation to get out of it, was to spite his father. To show his father that he could do it too—that he was just as strong, just as willing, just as brave. As the chopper lowered him down onto Vietnamese soil, he thought to himself, "This is just for you, Dad. I hope you're proud of me."

But what he didn't realize was: the life of a soldier would change everything. His goal would no longer be living; it would be surviving. It would be trying to make it to another day if only just to breathe. It would be coming to see how much he'd taken for granted.

There was _so_ much baggage. Besides the required battle gear—the camouflage uniform complete with boots and helmet—the standard weapons, like the M-16, the M-18 smoke grenade, and the .39-caliber Smith & Wesson handgun, there were also the personal necessities: a pocket knife, a wristwatch, chewing gum, mosquito repellant, salt tablets, bandages, a Military Payment Certificate, C rations, a canteen of water, and a knapsack filled with letters from home. In addition to all of that, there was a duffle bag that he carried on his back at all times which contained items of clothing such as extra jackets, trousers, underwear, socks, and the little green plastic poncho that saved him from the monsoons and often came in handy as a little makeshift tent. He also carried a Bible with him—a small King James version that he kept secure at the bottom of the bag, beneath all the clothes. He would take it out almost every evening, after the gunfire had ceased and everything was quiet again, and read it.

And of course, there was the necklace his parents had given him, which he kept firmly around his neck.

His load wasn't as bad as that of some of the other soldiers. There were, originally, 17 guys in the platoon he'd been placed in and each bore his own weight. Some carried cigarettes (and considered them necessities), some preferred pot because it took them where no cigarette could; some carried magazines—_Playboy_ and _Mad_ being common favorites—and comic books of superheroes; some carried tokens of love from their friends and family; and others, extra food and water, as well as hygiene products. It all depended on their fancies. They each had different ideas of what dictated necessity—of what their bodies could handle.

The soldiers of higher rank had it even worse. Nobody envied them. The higher a man's standing, the more he had to bear. The platoon's First Lieutenant, Jeremy Morrison (Reverend Conroy could still remember their names), carried a compass, an array of maps, an extra pistol, and a booklet of codes. Along with that, he carried the responsibility of leadership. The lives of the rest of the men were on his shoulders. The RTO of the group, Michael Sullivan, carried the 28-pound PRC-25 radio that was used to report back to base. The medic, Eric Riley, was equipped with a satchel filled to the brim with things like morphine, malaria tablets, plasma, surgical tape, sewing tools, and antiseptic. The machine gunner, a big man named Ronald Pierson, carried an M-60, as well as 10 pounds worth of ammunition across his shoulders and around his waist. The 13 others, who were typical PFCs, didn't have to worry about any of that. And they couldn't have been any more grateful. Overwhelmed by fatigue, heat, illnesses, and their own freight, they dragged ass enough as it was.

Aside from the physical baggage, there was also the emotional weight—the terror, the grief, the anger, the love, the longing, the hope. The intangibles that seemed to have more gravity than all the material things combined. There were memories and desires, regrets and doubts. There was a strong sense of dignity that permeated them, burrowing itself deep beneath the rage, the confusion, the spouts of sarcasm, and the pain. A sense of dignity that kept them going. Kept them fighting, even though there were times when they wanted to quit—times when they wanted to lie down on the ground and wait for death to come take them away. Times, especially during battle, when they wanted to run and hide, and cover their heads, and curl up, and scream, and make pathetic promises to their God in exchange for their torment to end.

They were constantly afraid, but they had to learn to live with their fear. They had to keep moving, keep thinking, keep praying. They had to numb themselves as best as they could and tell themselves that it didn't matter—that they were dead anyway. None of them really believed that, but they tried to convince themselves of it nevertheless. They wanted to be brave; that was the main thing—being the hero. Defying the odds. Facing the enemy head-on, with smiles on their faces and patriotism in their hearts. They trudged like dutiful mules, taking sniper fire by night and mortar rounds by day, sleeping in holes, trying to maintain their sanity through jokes, singing, and storytelling.

There was a pervasive feeling of sadness amongst them—predominantly for the men they lost. They may have started out with 17 able-bodied men, but that sure as hell was not how they stayed. In the time Jonathan Conroy had been there, they lost a total of six of their guys—including a good friend of his named Nick Brody. As a soldier, aloofness was strongly encouraged; it wasn't wise to acknowledge feelings. Though despite that, Jonathan had managed to become close to two fellow men: Wesley Grant, a 24-year-old from Dallas, Texas, and Nicholas Brody, a 22-year-old from Detroit, Michigan. Two city slickers, as different from each other as night and day, yet he'd loved them both.

Losing buddies was the toughest thing about being in a combat zone. To some, it was even worse than dying. There was nothing like it for sure—nothing like getting to know someone, learning to work with them as a team, coming to love them, and then losing them. But it happened all the time. One minute, they'd be fine. And then the next, bam! They'd step on a grenade or get shot by a sniper, and they'd be gone.

The day they lost Nick, they were fighting a battle next to the Saigon River. It wasn't much of a battle, but that's what the men in charge were calling it so no one complained. It was more favorable to call it a battle than anything else. Lieutenant Jeremy Morrison's troops had caught up with another platoon and they were both getting the shit blasted out of them by the Viet Cong because they'd landed right smack in the middle of these bunkers that they weren't supposed to go near. They were running around the river's edge, dodging bullets, swearing under their breaths that they'd done something incredibly stupid, wondering how in god's name they were going to get out of there…when Nick Brody paid the ultimate price of war. He and Jonathan Conroy had been running next to each other when suddenly, Nick yelled in pain and fell over sideways into the water. Jonathan turned to look at him and saw that he'd been shot in the collarbone. His body was floating on the river's surface, his eyes closed, blood sliding down the crevice between his neck and shoulder and spiraling through the ripples. Jonathan knelt down to pull him out but was forced back to his feet by Jeremy Morrison himself who said to leave him there because he was a dead man.

Jonathan did what he was told. But later on that night, while he was in his foxhole, he cried his eyes out for Nick.

For Nick and for himself.

For Nick because he had died. For himself because he had been unable to save him.

He hated himself for following orders. He wished, so badly, that he hadn't—that he had stood up to Morrison and told him to "fuck off" and had persisted in trying to pull Nick out of the water. He knew that doing such could have gotten himself shot; in a combat zone, kneeling down made a person a sitting duck. But Nick was his friend. One of his only friends. And he'd just left him there.

His other friend, Wesley Grant, heard him crying and went to go join him in his foxhole. Usually the men didn't do that. Crying meant you were weak; crying meant you couldn't take it and wouldn't take it, and so everyone should avoid you like the plague because sentimentality was something no man in war could afford. But Wesley Grant challenged that and came to comfort him. The reverend could still hear his words, as clearly as though they had been uttered just yesterday: "Johnny, you okay?"

He'd sniffled in reply and wiped at his eyes, making a feeble attempt to hide that he was crying.

"I know you're cryin' man. No sense in hidin' it." Wesley had come up behind him and squeezed his shoulder. "He was a good man. Damn fine soldier. A tough'un, too. You think he'd wanna see you blubberin' like this?"

Frustrated, Jonathan had yanked his shoulder out of Wesley's grasp. If this was Wesley's way of offering condolences, he could do without it. It was bad enough he was crying. He didn't need someone he'd thought of as a friend to act condescending to him also.

Wesley understood his feelings. "I didn't mean it like that, man. It's just…you gotta move on somehow. He's gone. Ain't no one that can bring him back."

Jonathan relaxed a little. He was right about that.

"Best we can do now is honor his memory."

There was a moment's pause, and then Jonathan had asked the unthinkable question: "Why did he die?"

"You were there," Wesley said. "You saw him. He was shot."

"No, that's how he died," Jonathan argued. "_Why _did he die?"

"For our cause."

"What's our cause?"

"What do you mean 'what's our cause'?"

"Why are we fighting, Wes?"

Wesley didn't answer. There was another pause.

"Wes," Jonathan prodded, "why are we fighting?"

Wesley shook his head, obviously not knowing how to answer. "You think too much, man," he told him. "Get some rest now. We'll be marchin' again come mornin'." Then he was gone and Jonathan was once again alone in his foxhole, left to contemplate Nick's death and the war itself all on his own.

He stayed awake half the night thinking about it, but found no solution.

Nick was one of two deaths in Jeremy Morrison's platoon that took place in actual battle. The remaining four happened due to accidents. This one guy by the name of Alan Turner left the platoon one night to go take a piss and never came back. When two of the other guys went after him they found his corpse lying face-down in the dirt with a bullet hole in the back of his head. There was another named Eddie Calloway, who thought he was John Wayne. He wore sunglasses while walking through the minefields and acted like he was the shit. Everyone told him that wearing sunglasses was a bad idea because he couldn't see the wires when he tried to step over them. He didn't listen, and eventually he walked into a booby trap that blew half his face off. When the guys approached him to take a look at the damage, they saw that his glasses had fallen off and were lying in pieces next to his forehead; his whole jaw was missing and he was dead. Another guy died mysteriously. He just didn't wake up one morning. Not even after being vigorously shaken. The guys figured it was a mixture of malnutrition, fatigue, and excessive heat. Whatever the cause, they decided they couldn't just leave him there. Not like that—exposed, a display of man's natural mortality. So they covered him over with a mound of dirt and literally buried him inside his own foxhole. The fourth death, a guy named Mack Lemmings, stepped on a butterfly bomb and got blown into a tree. There was virtually nothing left of him except an arm hanging from one branch and a string of intestines hanging from another.

Poof. Just like that. All of them. Nothing to it except one little mistake. One false move. And not a thing to remember them except memories.

They couldn't be given the benefit of a funeral, or the respect of loved ones crying for them. It was an order that a soldier refrain from crying. Tears were a well-understood taboo. As was not following orders.

The thing about war was: it tested a man's sense of humanity. It twisted it. He had to forget his own morals and put faith in the morals of someone else. He had to sell himself, in every way possible—sell his soul, sell his body, sell his life—for a principle that may or may not have been his own. This principle governed his very essence, causing him to do the most unfathomable things. Without remorse. Without resistance.

Jonathan Conroy had done such things.

He remembered leading a procession of Vietnamese civilians from their village homes to a hand-dug ditch about a quarter of a mile within the surrounding jungle. He and his fellow soldiers were under the impression that they would merely be kept there until their village was thoroughly searched and no weapons were found; there'd been talk of grenades and other explosives being hidden in villages specifically for when wandering platoons came through, and this assumption had turned into a widespread paranoia. The villagers were scared but they obeyed commands. They walked together, next to each other, in long lines, holding hands, comforting, praying, kissing, cradling their infants against their chests, looking lovingly into each other's eyes. Some of them already knew what would happen. Some of them knew before the soldiers did.

Reverend Conroy would never forget when he heard the general's orders—his voice devoid of emotion as he said, over the fuzz of the radio, "Waste them." He remembered how his body went cold and rigid, and how he no longer felt human. Yet he'd joined his fellow soldiers as they encircled the ditch, aiming their ammunition at the terrified, betrayed, and in many cases, startled Vietnamese civilians. He listened as the general gave the order to fire.

And he did, without question.

He fired and fired, and closed his eyes tightly against the spray of blood, and blocked his hearing from the screams as they shot back at him from inside the ditch.

It was so robotic. He couldn't for the life of him recall what he was thinking as he pulled the trigger. But at the time it didn't matter; he was a soldier and a soldier's job was not to think. It was to act. A soldier was not valued for his thoughts. He was valued for his capabilities, and his willingness to do what he was told. He was praised if he could abandon everything he was and ever wanted to be for what rich men in Washington had deemed a worthy cause.

After the firing had ceased, he walked away. He didn't look inside the ditch, at the bodies. Most of the men did but he didn't. He was frozen. Dead. It was as though, by shooting into that ditch, he had not only killed others, he had also killed himself. He was still moving. Still breathing. But something inside him had died. He didn't know exactly what, but it left him feeling empty.

That night, he did two major things: he threw away the crucifix necklace his parents had bought for him, and he vowed to never again read the Bible. He wasn't worthy of either.

Nobody spoke that night. Usually the men would laugh and joke before they went to sleep. Not this time. No one knew what to say, or how to say what was on their minds. Silence overcame them—a silence that, in many ways, was deafening.

Some would later try to justify the whole thing. "What's the difference, Johnny?" one guy asked Jonathan Conroy. "Killing people on a battlefield or killing 'em in a ditch—you're still killing 'em."

"We did what we had to do," explained another. "There's no shame in that."

But there _was _shame, and they _didn't _do what they had to do, and there _was _a difference between killing people in battle and killing them collectively in some ditch. And all the men knew this; they just couldn't bring themselves to admit it. They couldn't find the strength, despite the nausea in their stomachs, to say that what they had done was commit cold-blooded murder. It was on all of their minds, on the tips of all of their tongues. But nobody said it.

They were confused. They'd been told they were patriots for what they were doing, but now they were left to wonder: what is the meaning of patriotism when a man knows the ways of war and bears the blood of innocent people on his hands?

There were many bodies—real bodies with real faces and real identities. Back then, Jonathan Conroy had been too scared to look at them—too afraid of nightmares. Now, over forty years later, he was left with faceless memories and nameless grief. However, there was one that he _did_ see. A young Vietnamese boy. He'd shot him down from about thirty feet away, without thinking, without consideration. Shortly afterwards, the boy's body was brought forward by two other guys in the platoon and situated against a tree. He was the first that Jonathan Conroy had ever actually seen himself kill, so his curiosity got the best of him and he took a look. The boy couldn't have been any older than him. He had a smooth face—a face not worn by years, though it was covered with grime. His eyes were open, staring blankly into nothingness, but from Jonathan's perspective they seemed to be gazing directly at him—accusing him.

He wondered what his name was, where he was born, if he had a girlfriend, if his parents would wonder where he was, what happened to him, how he died…who killed him. He saw him as a person, rather than a gook. "Gook" was a word used to dehumanize a man so there wouldn't be any guilt in killing him. It's easier to pull the trigger if your target's not human. He saw him as a friend, a brother, a man who'd lived under the same sun as him.

And as he came to realize these things, his heart broke.

His fellow men clapped him on the back. "It's okay, man," they said. "You did good. If you hadn't have shot him, he sure as hell woulda shot you."

That may have been true. But it still didn't erase the guilt.

Not only did he learn what it was like to kill someone. He also learned what it was like to nearly get killed. He'd been wounded once, during what would be his last battle—the battle that, consequently, would wake him up in the middle of the night with the quakes and the quivers and ultimately get him to start reading the bible again. The battle that would be his ticket home.

It took place in a little village that they didn't even know the name of. Morrison's platoon had teamed up with two others. Since some of the guys in each one had been killed, there were about 41 soldiers in all, which made the leaders view the village as an easy victory. It turned out to anything but. The land was mined and booby trapped more than anywhere they'd ever been and the Viet Cong soldiers who guarded the village were heavily equipped with mortars. Eruptions were going off like crazy. Left and right, men were falling. One would take a "bouncing betty" and need intensive medical care, another would fall into a grass-covered pit and land on an assortment of spikes that were situated at the bottom. Within just moments of their arrival, the attack had turned into a catastrophe.

And to make matters worse, it started to rain.

As Jonathan Conroy was trying to make it across a muddy terrain to accompany some fellow men barricade a hut, a mortar round was fired right next to him, peppering his whole left side with shrapnel. The force of the blast reeled him backwards into a mud puddle, and there he laid, his side stinging like the dickens as dirty water soaked through his uniform and entered his wounds. A retreat was called. Jonathan tried to scramble to his feet but fell back down when the pain rendered moving virtually impossible. A little ways away from him, the members of all three platoons were hauling ass back into the jungle. Jonathan watched as they left him behind, sucking in deep, labored breaths, coming to terms with the fact that he wasn't going to make it. That this would be his last battle. His last day of life. He tried telling himself that he was okay with that—that he deserved this fate. This was meant to happen and he needed to suffer for the heinous deeds he'd done.

Then, all of a sudden, he felt himself being gripped from behind and hoisted upwards. When he glanced back, he saw that it was Wesley Grant and Lieutenant Jeremy Morrison. They'd come back for him. Jonathan told them to go on and leave him—that they shouldn't have to die on his account. He was a lost cause.

But they disagreed.

"We ain't leavin' you!" Wesley said firmly, promptly lifting him up and throwing him over his back despite his groaning and protests. Together, he and Morrison headed into the jungle with the rest of the men. God knew how they managed to elude all the bullets fired at them, but they did.

And to this day, Jonathan Conroy owed them his life.

He was placed in a chopper and flown to base. Then he was taken to an infirmary, where the shrapnel was removed. He stayed there for two weeks, given a surplus of drugs, a purple heart, and a discharge.

It was 1968 and he was 21 years old when he left Vietnam for home.

Home was different when he came back. It was too quiet. Too temperate. Every time his mom's tea kettle whistled, every time it thundered outside, every time one of his siblings shouted or dropped something, every time a horn was honked, or someone sneezed, or someone snuck up behind him, he'd nearly jump out of his skin. "A jitter bug," his mom started calling him, but his father understood. His father looked at him with knowing eyes. With eyes that said, "Hey, I've been there. I know what this is." Eyes that Jonathan could read like a novel.

The eyes said everything.

They saw the scars, the tears, and the pain, and they gazed at them with love.

For a while, Jonathan didn't think he had the strength to resume life. It was his father would make him realize he had to. One can't simply stop living because of anguish. If they lie down for too long, they won't get back up. So Jonathan did his father proud once again and forced himself back up.

He became a minister.

It felt odd at first. Hardly fitting for an ex-soldier. But he really didn't want to do anything else. He ached for redemption, and felt there was no better way to achieve it than through full dedication to God. He renounced everything—all that he ever was, all that he ever desired—in pursuit of love. He reformed himself. Tore himself down and built himself up. Reconstructed himself in an image of his choosing.

For a while, life as a reverend was simplistic and rewarding. People came to him, asking to be saved, begging for guidance, and he happily complied. And it felt good. It felt wholesome. Though, sadly it was short-lived.

Just as Vietnam had, the opening of Lacunar Inc. changed everything. Another war had started and innocent citizens would have to pay the price for the greed of rich men sitting behind desks and working furiously in laboratories. There wasn't much in the way of killing, save for what happened with Wilkinson, but it was no less a war. A war between proof and faith. Between doing the easiest thing and doing the right thing.

A war that could cause far more damage than a gun or a grenade.

Reverend Jonathan Conroy had been determined to oppose Lacunar Inc. He felt it his duty, both to God and to his fellow man, to do so. As soon as he'd heard of a clinic being constructed in Boston—the closest one to where he lived—he immediately packed up and moved there. It was hard saying good-bye to the grassy land of Virginia but he had an obligation ahead of him that he could not ignore. He had an important mission: to spread the word of God and turn desperate people away from the evil temptations of Lacunar Inc.

He took the liberty of learning all he could about it—the people involved with it, its origins, its tactics. He even went so far as to make connections with people he'd typically avoid. Anything to be more knowledgeable about this scientific plague that was sweeping the nation (and slowly, the globe).

He was not alone. Many other religious people did the same. Though some preferred different methods than he did. The shooting of Wilkinson and his colleagues was a tragedy and anyone who condoned it was in the wrong.

Killing the enemy wasn't just. It wasn't a solution. Just a means to a bitter end.

He preferred converting people. Using persuasion. Logic. Reason. And most of all, love. Love was the most important. He'd used love with Cody—or at least tried to. But sometimes, and he had to be brutally honest with himself, it was hard to be loving. It was hard to always be gentle and kind and understanding. It went against the fabric of human nature. When he saw Cody, part of him wanted to yell at him. To shake him and ask, "Why the hell did you do it?"

He had to channel the reformed voice in his head to stop himself. In the end, he couldn't do much except explain who he was, what he wanted, and offer his services. He didn't know whether or not Cody was aware of what he'd done but he couldn't risk psychologically damaging him. He'd never forgive himself if he did (and he already had enough he couldn't forgive himself for).

He'd felt disheartened by Cody's reaction, though not surprised. Practically no one who wasn't profoundly religious was interested in saving their soul. It was just a fact. And there was no reason why Cody would be any different. The poor boy had little reason for faith. He'd been in a fire—a most horrid fire that had been covered in the news. A fire that he'd been the sole survivor of. And then later, as Reverend Conroy found out from one of his personal "contacts," he'd also been through the procedure.

He felt for Cody. There was no mistake about that. But he couldn't deny that he was angry at him too. What right did Cody have to erase his own brother (his contact had gone to great lengths to tell him what—or in this case, who—Cody had erased)? How could he? Granted, the boy was in pain. Then again, who in this world wasn't? Pain was part of the human existence. It gave meaning to joy.

When he'd first met Cody, Reverend Conroy had been tempted to tell him this—tempted to ask how a boy who'd been in a fire could be so tormented as to erase a precious memory, when a soldier who'd done more vicious things than most men could fathom was able to retain all of his.

Reverend Conroy had been to hell and back. He'd seen _many_ fires. And not just ones that encompassed single buildings but ones that swallowed up whole villages—spreading from one house to another, scorching, growing…their black smoke blotting out the sky. He'd killed a boy his own age, and fired into a crowd of women and children because a man he'd never even met told him to. He'd seen men die in the most gut-wrenching ways and looked on as young girls got raped under the basis that a simple word—"gook"—defined them. All these things he'd done with shame. But he'd done them nevertheless.

And if a man could live with that, he could live with just about anything.


	8. Enemies, Liars, and Coworkers

**This chapter is the turning point in the story, and you may want to keep that in mind as you read it because it's potentially one of the weirdest. All I ask is that you remain patient and work with it. Eventually, it will all make sense. :)**

**There's a part in this chapter about Greg and Lisa that may feel like it doesn't belong. I promise, it will be important later on. Also, there is mention of a man named Dr. Donovan. To avoid confusion, I'll go ahead and say he is the head doctor of the Boston Lacunar Inc. clinic. **

**Disclaimer: as you all know, I do not own **_**The Suite Life**_** series.**

"…_I have friends in low places."_

That didn't make any sense. Why, if Reverend Conroy was a preacher who stood for love and doing the right thing, would he have friends in low places? Why would he stoop to a level beneath his own? Not that he belonged on any kind of pedestal. At the very least, he was pompous and self-righteous. That holier-than-thou "I can save you" attitude was prevalent in him. It was part of the reason why Cody had been so adamant in making sure the reverend knew he wasn't interested in his religious "services."

"_I, for one, like to keep my enemies __very __close."_

Cody just couldn't understand it. Granted, it seemed an intelligent move in a time of tension, to keep a watchful eye on people who might mean you harm. But why would he need to keep his enemies "very close"? Why not moderately close—close enough to see but not to touch?

Cody was baffled. He couldn't deny that part of him wanted to like the reverend. Part of him wanted to view the reverend as an ally. But just as that part yearned for a sense of camaraderie, the other part of him was passionate in clinging to seclusion and skepticism. It wasn't wise to trust someone he'd barely met, let alone someone who very well may turn out to be just as fanatical in his opposition to Lacunar Inc. as Lacunar Inc. was in its opposition to him.

_Trust no one. Trust no one but yourself and those closest to you. People like Bailey. And TJ. _

_Wait…TJ! _Cody's mind gave a little jolt. _What am I going to tell TJ?_ It felt like ages ago since he'd left his apartment for Bailey's, promising TJ that he'd come back with answers pertaining to the picture they'd discovered. But there was no doubt in his mind that TJ still wanted to know what was going on.

Should he go back to his place and keep his promise to TJ, or go back to Bailey's and give her the synopsis of his visit with Reverend Conroy (which he was sure she was waiting to receive)? If he went back to TJ, Bailey would no doubt wonder what was taking him so long, as he'd told her he'd be back in a few minutes. On the other hand, if he went back to Bailey, TJ may start to panic. The poor guy was probably worried out of his skin by now. He hadn't so much as been contacted since Cody's departure.

His heart said "go to Bailey" because she was the one in danger—she was the one who'd put her safety on the line for his sake. But his head leaned more toward TJ. It wasn't fair to leave his friend in the dark. Especially after all he knew already.

Sighing, Cody made a decision. He got out his cell phone, selected Bailey's name on his contact list, put the phone to the side of his face, waited through the rings, and started speaking as soon as she answered: "Hey Bailey. I met up with the reverend. He and I talked for a while. It went okay. Hey look, there's something I've gotta do. It'll take a while but I promise I'll come back as soon as possible."

…

Cody was quite astounded to find TJ still in his apartment. He would have thought he'd have given up and left hours ago. When he opened the door, TJ stood there in front of him, his eyes wide. His hand went up to his chest and he heaved a sigh of relief. "Jesus, man, where the hell 'ave you been?" he griped. "You said you'd be right back. Your definition of 'right back' must be different than mine."

"Sorry, man," Cody apologized on his way in. "Got held up."

"How?" TJ followed him, breathing heavily from aggravation and the aftermath of anxiety, his breath overwhelmed with the stench of nicotine. He'd been chain-smoking. Probably in the apartment too, but Cody didn't have the heart to confront him about it. "I'da thought a trip to your ex-girlfriend's woulda sent you running back here as soon as you could get out the door. Guess I was wrong." TJ then did a double-take on Cody's outfit—a dark blue polo shirt and black dress pants. "And what the jeebies are you wearing?"

Cody glanced down at himself. He'd almost forgotten about his clothing change at Bailey's after his shower. "Oh, uh, an old outfit Bailey bought me a long time ago. Back when we were dating."

TJ was thoroughly intrigued. "Whyyy?" he asked with a hint of suspicion.

"Long story," Cody professed, waving a hand at him absent-mindedly.

TJ cocked an eyebrow, the suspicion on his face even more evident.

"It's not what you think," Cody told him matter-of-factly. "I just had a little…accident. A fainting spell. And I sweated while I was out so I had to take a shower. No big deal."

"You _fainted_?" TJ questioned, now more concerned about that than anything else.

"It's nothing," Cody said casually. "Look at me, I'm fine."

TJ scrutinized him. "You do look better," he commented. "A little more like you're old self. But tell me what happened. You left here and stayed gone and I had no idea where the hell you were. How did everything go?" His face suddenly became very serious. "Did you find out who the guy in the picture was?"

The mention of the picture startled Cody. His body grew rigid as an image of his forgotten twin brother, smiling in between him and Bailey, emerged into focus in his mind. Accompanying the image was a surge of guilt, clawing at his insides, ripping them apart. Would it ever go away? Would it ever subside?

TJ was waiting for an answer. And Cody gave him one: "He was my brother."

"Your _brother_?" TJ gasped, taken aback.

"Yeah," Cody clarified, trying to keep his face from scrunching into a painful grimace. "He was my brother, and I forgot about him."

"But…how?"

"Lacunar Inc.," Cody said simply. "I had him erased."

TJ let this sink in. It was beyond anything he would have guessed. Beyond anything he so much as would have considered. "That doesn't make any sense," he finally spoke. "If you had a brother how come I don't know about him?"

Cody's mind went blank. He hadn't even thought of that, yet it was a more than valid question. Why wouldn't TJ know about Zack? One would think a guy would tell his own best friend about whether or not he had a sibling. Especially if the sibling was a twin. "I…I don't know," he admitted glumly.

"Why would keep something like that from me?" he persisted, his tone indicating resentment. "What else haven't you told me?"

"I don't know, TJ," Cody repeated. "I don't know myself anymore."

For the first time since Cody had arrived, TJ looked away from him. Taking a seat on his friend's sofa, he eyed the carpet, mulling over this strange turn of events. Wishing, more than anything—despite how selfish it was—that they had never found that picture in the first place. "So where is he now, this brother of yours?" he inquired, still avoiding Cody's eyes, eliminating the resentment in his voice and replacing it with genuine curiosity.

"He's dead," Cody replied, suppressing the urge to retch.

Slowly, TJ's eyes lifted up and found his. Looking at his pale, blond-haired, emotionally broken friend, he didn't know what to feel more, sympathy or surprise. He tried to pick the one that best fit the occasion, but in the end all he could say was, "What happened?"

Cody knew that question had been coming sooner or later, and he didn't want to go into the details (just revealing the basics was hard enough), so he answered with two words: "The fire."

"Dude, that's _impossible_!" TJ exclaimed. He appeared almost desperate now—desperate for a sensible explanation. For anything he could believe in without any doubt.

"It's the truth," Cody told him.

"It _can't_ be the truth!" TJ disputed, standing back up. "Six people died in that fire, Cody! Only six! There was no one else. Someone would have said something; someone would have _seen_ something! His name would have been on the news with all the others!"

Cody opened his mouth to say something in return, but nothing came out. He was struck dumb. Everything TJ had just said was valid, and it hadn't even so much as crossed his mind. It didn't make sense that Bailey had seen something that TJ hadn't. TJ knew all about the fire; he had been deeply affected by it. He'd practically memorized every detail of the news story. If there had been a Zack Martin amongst the deceased, he would know.

But then, where did that leave Bailey's story? Where did that leave the picture?

Bailey was an honest person. He could put his faith in her.

"I'm sorry to say it, man," TJ added, taking notice of his friend's inner turmoil. "But either Bailey's wrong or…" He stopped himself, unwilling to finish his sentence.

"Or what?" Cody pushed indignantly. "What were you going to say?" He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from TJ.

TJ sighed. "She's your ex-girlfriend, man. You're lucky if you can believe half of what she says."

"You calling her a liar?" Cody spat.

"It's not like I _want _to!" TJ defended himself. "There's just no other explanation. I have no idea who that guy in the picture is—maybe he _is_ your dead brother, I don't know—but he sure as _fuck_ did not die in that fire!"

Cody shook his head. This was unbelievable. How could two trustworthy people have such conflicting sides to the same event? Having differing opinions was one thing, but this was a matter of facts. Either Zack died in the fire or he didn't. There was no murky area of uncertainty in-between.

Cody thought about what Bailey had said about the boy holding his dead brother in his arms, and how he was so sure it was him and Zack. It had seemed obvious—a vital puzzle to the mystery. And Bailey had looked so sincere when she told him about it. Could it be possible that none of that really happened?

No. No, it couldn't. If there was one thing Cody was certain of it was that he could believe Bailey. "Bailey wouldn't lie. She has her faults, but lying isn't one of them," he said, calmly and with conviction.

"Oh, of course not!" TJ retorted. "Heaven forbid sweet little Bailey isn't as honest as you think she is!"

"Why would she lie about something like this, TJ?" Cody practically begged to know. "Why would she make something like this up? She _wouldn't_." Suddenly, he remembered the message on Bailey's answering machine. "Besides, there was proof. There was a phone call from Lacunar Inc. It was on her answering machine and she played it for me. It mentioned Zack, TJ. Zack_ and_ the operation."

TJ was thrown off-guard by that bit of information, but he accepted it rather quickly. "Okay," he admitted. "So that proves you _did_ have this Zack guy erased."

"My brother, TJ," Cody pointed out. "He wasn't just some guy, he was my brother."

"Yeah, whatever, so you had him erased…that doesn't prove he died in the fire."

He was right, it didn't. Nothing was proven. The only "proof" he had to go on was the picture, and even that wasn't much. He knew that Zack was his brother (he couldn't believe otherwise), but nothing pointed to him having died in the fire—nothing, that is, except for Bailey's word. But there _had_ to be proof somewhere. There had to be a record of some sort, a tell-tale sign of his existence. Zack couldn't have just vanished into thin air. If he was dead, there had to be a body somewhere. A grave. A tombstone with his name on it. An obituary article. Anything.

"Maybe not," Cody concurred, an idea suddenly forming in his head. "But we're going to find out."

It took TJ a moment to assess what he'd just said. "We?" he asked.

Cody nodded. "We."

…

By mid-afternoon, Lisa Burke was working silently and diligently in her cubical, one hand on the mouse next to her keyboard and the other supporting the phone that she held against the side of her face. She was gazing almost mindlessly at the white computer screen before her, which contained columns upon columns of names. Names, phone numbers, and appointment dates. Future customers of the Lacunar Inc. clinic in Boston. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Clemmons," she apologized to the lady on the other end, "but I don't have you on here. Are you sure you scheduled an appointment?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Mrs. Clemmons yelled. "Just check again! There's no way I'm not on there!"

Lisa checked again. She scrolled up and down all through the customers with last names beginning with C, not finding anyone by the name of "Clemmons" listed. She knew she wouldn't; this was no less than the third time she'd been asked to look. If she didn't find it the first two times there was no way in hell she would find it the third. "I'm sorry," she apologized again. "I've looked through this list thoroughly. There is not a single Clemmons."

Mrs. Clemmons sighed, her breath streaming into the receiver of her phone as she seethed. "Okay," she finally said, "could you possibly put me on the list now?"

"I could," Lisa replied honestly. "But it'll be a while before you have your appointment. We're booked until July of next year."

"_July_?"

"That's right. You still want me to add you on?"

Mrs. Clemmons didn't answer.

"Mrs. Clemmons?"

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Clemmons answered, her voice strenuous and flustered. "Yes, add me."

Lisa clicked the "Add Name" button at the top right-hand corner of the screen and added Mrs. Clemmons name to the already extensive customer list. "Alright," she stated, "you've been added. Your appointment is on July 17th, at 9:30 in the morning. If you ever wish to reschedule, just give us a call and we'll be happy to accommodate you."

Mrs. Clemmons groaned. "Thank you," she said, though judging by her tone she was anything but thankful.

"No problem. You have a good day!"

Mrs. Clemmons had already hung up. Lisa took a long, deep breath and hung up the phone. What she wouldn't give for a nap, or some headache relief. She looked at the time on the lower right-hand side of her computer screen. She still had two hours to go before her shift ended. Technically two hours wasn't much but desk work made it feel like an eternity. She yawned, realizing just then that she had to pee.

_Funny what can elude you when you're busy. _

She got up out of her leather chair and peered over the edge of the barrier dividing her cubicle from that of the lady who worked next to her. "Psst, hey! Excuse me?" she called down to her.

The lady looked up at her inquisitively. She was middle-aged, oriental, and dressed in a white blouse and beige skirt, her feet clad in black high-heels. Lisa couldn't remember her name (names got lost so easily in a place this large), though she'd seen her before on several occasions.

"I have to make a quick trip to the restroom. Would you mind watching my cubicle for a few minutes? Just…if anyone calls, answer it and tell them I'll be right back."

The oriental woman nodded and smiled.

"Thank you so much!"

As Lisa made her way down the hallway that would lead her to one of the facility's restrooms, passing a series of cubicles, a staff board room, and a small animal laboratory (designed for test runs before human subjects were used) on the way, she thought about all the things she had to do before the week was over: finish filing Cody Martin's paperwork, sign that she had presided over his memory erasure (and be sure to state that there had been complications), and then meet with Dr. Donovan and talk about how it all went down and how she'd been in the wrong for wanting to abort the procedure. She felt her insides fill with dread. She didn't think she'd get yelled at, but she'd no doubt be given a stern lecture on following orders. Nobody saw Dr. Donovan without some form of consequence.

At least she had her first customer under her belt. Cody Martin—her very first charge, after all those months in training, all those tests and grueling practice procedures, all those late nights and sacrificed parties. It had all paid off.

And yet, she wasn't particularly happy. After she'd finished and left Cody Martin lying on his bed, she had been overwhelmed by this sensation of guilt and uncertainty. Despite having thoroughly checked his pulse, vital organs, and brain activity she had walked away feeling apprehensive. Like she'd just done something unwise and would have to pay for it later. Of course, being told to leave that one lousy picture behind didn't help matters. What was the purpose of that? You were never supposed to leave things behind! The whole purpose of the procedure was to _forget_. Completely. Wouldn't leaving behind evidence risk that? Wouldn't it lead to dire consequences?

To her it had made no sense. Yet she'd followed orders, exactly as they were given. She'd ripped the pages from his journals, taken the letters from his beside and pictures from his photo albums, deleted the phone messages and the name from the contact list, but saved one picture, stuffing it into the last slot of his picture album. Because they'd told her to, promising her that they knew what they were doing.

Once it was over, they told her she'd done a good job. It was a compliment so it should have made her feel good. It didn't. She'd walked out of Cody's apartment overcome with worry.

Never did she tell anybody this…until the next day, at lunchtime, when she'd confessed her feelings to Greg Harrison.

"First-timers guilt" is what he'd called it. A natural thing. As if he knew! He was an honest enough person, and very intelligent, but one thing she couldn't stand about him was how he seemed to think he knew more than he really did. Most of the time she passed it off as a male ego thing, but there were times when it really got to her. He was a dominant person if she'd ever seen one—a dead ringer, in that sense, of her deceased father—and there was a part of her that hated him for that. He had a never-ending ability to make her feel small and insignificant when she disagreed with him, simply by the way he spoke. By the way he carried himself. He was strictly a man of standard. Anything that fell outside his standard he couldn't tolerate. He was a trustworthy partner—reliable and consistent—but terribly arrogant and closed-minded.

An honest asshole. That was the best way she could think of to describe him.

She was almost to the ladies' restroom when, from the corner of her eye, she saw him. She spotted him through the rectangular window of a small conference room, standing next to none other than Molly Donovan—Dr. Donovan's daughter. She stopped and peered through the glass, standing off to the side of the door to prevent them from seeing her.

Molly was only about twenty years old—roughly half Greg Harrison's age—and quite pretty, though she wore way too much make-up and her hair had been tinted and streaked more times than anyone cared to count. She was standing with her arms crossed and one of her legs bent outward, a look of frustration on her face.

Lisa couldn't hear what they were saying, but it didn't matter. She had an idea. This wasn't the first time she'd seen them together. Rumors about them had been spreading throughout the whole facility. Dr. Donovan usually passed those rumors off as spiteful lies, but the two of them had been seen together multitudes of times, by numerous workers who knew what they were witnessing.

Greg and Molly cut an odd pair, and not just because of their age difference. Their mannerisms were awkward and came across as nervous, uncertain, and reserved. Lisa could see it now in the way they stood there, fidgeting, glancing down at the floor, shooting each other perturbed expressions. It was as though part of them wanted to do something, but the other part kept them from doing it. Lisa reckoned the latter part was dominated by fear—fear that Molly's father would one day realize that his daughter wasn't as innocent as he thought she was.

It shouldn't have bothered her. It was none of her business. So what if they were sneaking off to be together? So what if Dr. Donovan found out? It was no skin off her back, so why should she care? She couldn't imagine why, but gazing at Greg and his not-so-secret attraction made her nauseous. There was something about it, despite her distain for Greg as a person and her nonchalance towards Molly, that troubled her. She tried to put her finger on it: perhaps it was jealousy over the fact that Greg had found someone he was happy with, whereas she still hadn't; perhaps it was disgust over the unprofessionalism he was displaying; perhaps she was just vicious enough to not want Greg to be satisfied; perhaps, dare she think it, she was subconsciously worried about his future (after all, he was a good worker).

None of these explanations felt right. But then…what was it? Why was her stomach cramping? Why did she feel…betrayed? She had no reason to.

She leaned in close—so close that her breath fogged up the window. She must have made a sound because Greg and Molly both shot a glance her way and in one quick instant, she jumped away from the door. She continued making her way to the restroom, hoping she'd moved too fast for them to catch her. Sighing in slight relief as the queasiness in her stomach subsided.

Inside the restroom, she relieved herself, washed her hands, checked her appearance in the mirror (she looked like hell with the bags under her eyes), and then headed back out, keeping her head down and her eyes on the floor when she passed the door of the small conference room. She didn't even look to see if Greg and Molly were still inside.

When she got back to her cubicle, she found someone there waiting for her. A man—middle-aged and gruff-looking, dressed in a black Spiewak jacket and old jeans—clutching a yellow envelope and gazing at her with a somber expression.

"Um, may I help you?" she asked, trying to hide her discomfort with reasonability.

The man suddenly raised an eyebrow, his eyes briefly observing her figure. "Maybe after," he said.

Lisa was confused. "After what?"

"After I regretfully give you these." He handed her the envelope.

She took it from him and opened it, pulling from its interior a relatively large stack of eight-by-eleven photos, all of which depicted Cody Martin. She flipped through them: Cody in front of an apartment building, Cody in his car, Cody in a parking lot, Cody in front of a church, Cody walking inside the church, Cody walking out...

Lisa looked up at the man, feeling as though she was about to be sick. "What exactly am I looking at?" she demanded to know.

"A possible security breech."


	9. Cody's Choice

**A lot of tension in this chapter, but the tension is rather subtle. Most of it is withheld and internal, rather than blatant and direct. Hope you guys like it. We're getting closer and closer to the climax so everything is pretty much going to build up from here on out. I apologize for not picking up with the "security breech" cliffhanger in the last chapter; that will be coming up next. ;) **

**Please leave a review and let me know your thoughts. :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except TJ. **

The first time Carey Martin's phone rang and she saw that it was her son Cody, she stood back and let the answering machine get it, not even flinching when she heard his voice: "Hey Mom? Mom, you there? Come on, Mom, I know you're there. Pick up."

The second time it rang, a few minutes later, she picked it up, put it to the side of her face, and said nothing. Allowing him to hear her breathe on the other end, letting him know that breathing was all he was going to get. Then she slammed the phone back down into its cradle, driving the message home.

But then, the third time it rang, and Carey did the same thing she did the second time, Cody said something that jolted her—that electrified her insides: "Mom, listen, I _have _to talk to you. There's something I need to tell you." He paused. "I know about Zack."

Carey's heart jump-started, like an old car engine coming to life after years of nonuse. Cody knew about Zack? How?

"Mom, please, _pick up_ the phone. This is _important_."

And just like that, her inhibitions gave way. She was a mother again, wanting to talk to her baby boy. She could feel tears of joy and relief pooling her eyes as she yanked the phone from its cradle, placed it against her face, and spoke. "Cody?"

"_Mom_?" Cody sounded like he was about to bawl.

"Cody?" Carey said again. Her voice was courser than she would have liked it to be, and unfamiliar. As though it belonged to someone else and she was merely borrowing it.

Cody swallowed, gathering himself, preparing himself for what he had to say. This was so awkward—so surreal. When he'd called his mother up that morning, he was just an average college student contacting his mom. But now...now he was a former Lacunar Inc. patient, guilty of erasing memories of a twin brother. A traitor in a sense, and it changed everything. It changed his relationship with her. He'd broken her heart. Built a barrier that would linger between them for the rest of their lives.

"Mom, don't hang up," he said quickly. "Listen, I know about Zack now—I know he was my twin brother."

Carey's throat began to close. The tears in her eyes spilled over onto her cheeks and journeyed to her chin. He knew about Zack. He knew about his brother.

But it wasn't possible, was it? How could he? He had his memories erased. Carey thought back to the phone call she'd received earlier that day—the phone call from a man named Roger Lawrence, who worked for Lacunar Inc. and had told her about Cody undergoing the procedure. "_You must not, under any circumstances, mention Zachary Martin to him,_" he'd said."_This is crucial, as Cody no longer knows who Zachary Martin is._" Could it be that the procedure didn't work? That some of her younger son's memories had remained intact and out of the machine's reach?

It was a long shot, but what other explanation was there?

"There's so much I need to talk to you about," Cody persisted. "I know you probably don't want to talk me, but there's so much I need to know." He paused again, waiting.

She didn't say anything, too stunned to speak.

"Mom? You still there?"

Immediately she sucked in a breath of air and collected herself. "Yeah, Cody," she told him airily, trying to hide a sob that was edging up her throat. "Yeah, I'm still here."

"Look, I think it'd be best if we talk in person. Would that be alright with you? Is it okay if I come over and talk to you for a little while?"

She thought for a moment before replying. Cody, here? At her house? She never thought she'd see the day when she'd want to have him back in her presence—especially after practically convincing herself that she had no children left, that her boys were both dead and she was utterly and irrevocably alone in the world. And yet here was the miracle. Too good to be true. She thought maybe she was dreaming, and hoped to God she would never wake up. Her Cody remembered his brother, and now he wanted to see her. It was just like it used to be, just like it was supposed to be...or so it seemed.

"Yeah, honey, that would be just fine," she finally answered. "Whenever you're ready, come on over."

"Thanks, Mom!"

Ever so gently, she pulled the phone away from her face, still unable to come to terms with what had just happened.

"Oh, and one more thing..." she heard Cody say hurriedly from the other end of the line.

Instantly, she resituated the phone against her cheek. "Yeah?"

"I'll be bringing a friend with me."

She wasn't too enthusiastic about that idea (seeing Cody would be overwhelming enough), though decided not to argue. "Okay, that's fine."

They both hung up.

…

Carey Martin was watching the weather channel when she heard her son knock on the door. She'd figured it would distract her and keep her from frantically pacing the floor like a nervous wreck. When the knock came, she gave a jolt, her stomach churning uncomfortably. She stood up, sauntered over to the door, opened it, and stepped back, allowing Cody and a dark-skinned, dark-haired boy with black eyes to enter Suite 2330 of the Tipton hotel. The suite that used to hold a plethora of memories for Cody.

It was a mess now. There were crumbs on the kitchen table, magazines, newspapers and photo albums scattered all over the floor of the living room space, coffee mugs and saucers littering the counters, and dirty clothes piled on the couch. Carey didn't look much different. Her hair, noticeably unwashed, jutted out in every direction, and a pair of pajamas that had clearly been worn longer than a day hung loosely on her body, wrinkled and stained.

She said nothing when Cody and his friend walked in, feeling suddenly embarrassed at her unkemptness. Scratching her head, she looked the boys over with an expression that seemed to border on timidity and impatience, waiting for one of them to speak.

Cody noticed her edginess and took the initiative. "I know you're not exactly proud of me right now," he began, "and I don't blame you…but I'm still your son." He looked at her pleadingly. "I'm still the boy you raised. Just…lost."

Carey gazed at him for a long moment, breathing steadily, her mind deep in consideration. Then she shifted her attention to his friend, who was standing slightly behind him, not making a sound. "Who's your friend?" she asked.

"This is TJ, Mom." Cody jerked his head in TJ's direction, acknowledging him. "He's one of my college friends."

TJ extended his hand in respect. "A pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

Carey didn't shake it. This was too awkward for her—too strenuous. She felt fragile, as though making even the smallest movement would crumble her. "So you remember Zack?" she asked her son. Her stomach clenched, and inwardly she grimaced in pain. Zack and pain were synonymous for her now. "You know who he was?"

Cody nodded. "I do."

Carey decided to test him. "What do you remember about him?"

Cody gulped down a guilty sob. "Nothing," he admitted.

"_Nothing_?" Carey's voice almost had a condescending tinge to it.

"I know he was my brother."

"Is that all?"

Again, Cody nodded.

"Do you know what kind of a brother he was? What you and him did together? The times you fought with one another? The times you cried with one another? The times you helped each other? Do you remember _any_ of that?"

Cody's eyes left hers and went to the floor. "No," he muttered honestly, "I don't."

"Then you have _no clue_ who he was, do you?"

There was a long pause. A pause filled with thickened air and tension—tension that was so dense it was almost solid. In a way, it felt out of place and unexpected. On the phone Carey could have sworn that she was on the verge of being happy, that she wanted to see Cody. But now that he was right in front of her, she wanted him as far away from her as possible.

"I guess not," he finally answered her. "But I _want_ to know."

Carey crossed her arms, skeptical. "How did you even find out about him in the first place?"

"There was a picture," TJ spoke up. "A picture with him in it. He showed it to Bailey and she told him everything."

Carey considered that, her cynicism increasing. "Wouldn't Lacunar Inc. have gotten rid of all the evidence?"

TJ shrugged innocently. "That's what I'd'a thought," he said.

Carey thought a little while longer, then turned her attention back to Cody, looking as though some portion of her wanted to strangle him. "Why did you do it?" she begged to know. "Why, Cody, _why_?"

Cody's heart plummeted. The guilt was damn-near killing him. "I—I guess I just couldn't take the pain," he confessed pathetically. "Guess I wasn't strong enough."

"I disowned you, you know. In my head."

Cody winced, feeling a sharp pang erupt in his chest. First his twin, now his mom. Did he have no one in terms of family?

"It was the only way I could keep my sanity," Carey continued. "I could forgive Zack for dying on me, but what _you_ did…"

"Look, Mom, Bailey already ran me through with the 'shame' tactic, so you don't have to," Cody pointed out, remembering why he came there to begin with. "I'm here because I want to know about my brother—I want him back."

"You _can't _have him back…"

"I know he's dead," Cody clarified. "But I want to have him in the way that you and Bailey do. I want to be able to know him again, to love him again…to find him inside me."

Pause.

"Mom, when I woke up this morning I _knew_ I was forgetting something—something I never should have forgotten. I was haunted—by a feeling, by a shadow…" Cody looked at his mother seriously, his eyes imploring her to see his sincerity, to identify with him in any way that she could. "And you know what that shadow was?"

"Zack?" she guessed.

"Myself."

She gazed at him in bewilderment.

"I didn't know who I was anymore," he explained. "I'll never know myself until I know my twin. If I don't know him, I don't know me. I realize now that it's as simple as that."

Carey thought hard about that for a moment, slowly descending into a seat at the kitchen table. "It's funny," she finally said, "I almost envy you."

Cody was stunned. "You do?"

"Loving someone you know is the easiest thing in the world. Loving someone you don't is the hardest."

She didn't seem to be speaking to him, but to herself—reflecting on some internal epiphany. Cody's willingness to go through with Lacunar Inc.'s procedure had been selfish; it had seemed almost inhuman to Carey. And yet, it was incredibly human. People thought on selfish terms—on whatever they felt was beneficial to _them_. Granted, that did not justify self-centered actions, including Cody's, but something had to be said of a person who tried to undo their mistakes. Here was Cody, wanting desperately to take back what he'd done, knowing full well that doing so would entail a horrendous consequence: the pain of remembering a dead twin.

So, was he undeniably selfish?

"I still love Zack, Mom," he told her, feeling the weight of those words as they left his mouth. "I think part of me knew I'd forgotten him." He briefly turned to look at TJ. "That picture we found—when I saw it, this feeling came over me—this strange, sick feeling that I'd never experienced before…I don't even know how to describe it." He bit his lip. "But I know what it meant. Even though Zack's gone from my conscious mind, he's still a part of me. Nothing changes that. Not death, not erasure, not blame, nothing."

A tear slipped from Carey's eye. Cody walked up to her and dared to wipe it away with his finger.

He looked at her, and she looked at him, and for a brief yet amazingly long moment they were the only two people in the world—mother and son, creator and created, the forgiver and the forgiven.

And nothing else seemed to matter.

TJ was the one to break this moment. "Um, Miss Martin?" he called to Carey, bringing her out of her stupor.

"Please, call me Carey," she told him, keeping her eyes firmly on Cody.

"Carey?" TJ persisted. "Just wondering, how did Zack die?"

She then turned to acknowledge him. "The fire," she answered simply.

TJ took a deep breath, obviously unsatisfied but not wanting to fly off the handle in front of his friend's mother. He'd always been a firm believer in facts. He relied on them; to him, they were the only things worth relying _on_. If he couldn't put his faith in facts, then there was nothing left for him to put faith in. "Miss Martin—uh—Carey," he said, his voice shaking despite the conviction in his tone. "That can't be possible."

"Why not?" Carey wanted to know.

"There were only six deaths in that fire, and Zack wasn't one of them. Trust me on this. He didn't die in the fire. He couldn't have."

Carey raised an eyebrow. "You think I don't know how my own son died?" she asked, challenging him.

She and TJ stared each other down, both unwilling to relent, and for a moment, Cody felt a little peeved at TJ. He understood where the guy was coming from, and was extremely confused about the matter himself, but some piece of him did not want his mother to be opposed like this. He couldn't explain why exactly, but he was almost tempted to yank TJ out of the suite by his arm and tell him to leave his mother alone.

"Do you have any evidence?" TJ suggested.

"Nope, I threw it all away," Carey replied. "I prefer to concentrate on how Zack lived, rather than how he died."

"Where is he buried?" inquired Cody, wanting both to have some confirmation of his brother's death and to snuff out any tension between his mom and TJ.

"Coldbrook Cemetery."

Cody's heart skipped a beat. Proof! Verification! Exactly what he had been looking for. Remembering Zack was definitely top priority, but first he had to know—to be absolutely sure, beyond a doubt—that Zack was dead. Deep down he'd already known; he'd believed Bailey. But having a grave made the truth of it that much more concrete.

"His tombstone is in the back, under that big tree," Carey added, sensing her son's plans even before he even thought of them. "Next to grandma's."

That's when the idea came to him. He knew the precise location of his grandmother's tombstone, having been there when she was buried and visited it several times a year to put flowers on it.

"TJ," he said to his friend and companion, "I have to see it."

TJ nodded. "I know."

…

Before they left Suite 2330, Cody made a quick phone call to Bailey, telling her where he was going and apologizing for not coming back to her apartment as soon as he'd planned.

"It's okay," she assured him.

"I just hate worrying you, you know?" Cody said. "I've done enough of that already."

He could almost picture Bailey shaking her head. "Tell you what," she asserted, "why don't I come down there and meet you?"

"Are you sure?" Cody didn't know if he liked that idea. Bailey had yet to meet TJ, and Zack's death was a tragic memory for her.

"Yeah," she said, "I'm sure."

"You know where it is?"

"Yes"—her voice sounded slightly offended—"I know where it is."

Of course she did.

"Okay…if you want to."

"I want to."

"Alright, well, see you there then."

"See you there."

Cody clicked the "End" button on his cell phone and put it in his pocket.

…

It was getting dark. Coldbrook Cemetery was a small cemetery compared to most others in Boston, and quite haunting at night, but many people liked it because it felt more personal—more intimate and private. It was situated just beyond a railroad station, past a reservoir and a narrow, wooden bridge. The scenery was green, a definite change from what Cody and TJ were used to, and offered a rich air of history. Anyone who went there—both city-slickers and country folk alike—felt as though they were stepping back in time, entering a place that might as well have been another world.

Zack's tombstone looked insignificant in comparison to some of the others that surrounded it, yet it was clearly the newest. Majority of the graves there were at least five years old, covered by grass, their tombstones corroded and streaked with filth, the names upon them faded. Zack's was fresh; it stuck out amongst the others, ivory with a tint of gray, his name—Zachary Martin—engraved with acute depth into the stone's interior.

When Cody and TJ came upon it, neither one of them knew what to say. Or what to do. They had arrived. Now what? What do you say about someone you didn't even know you knew?

Looking down at the grave—the final resting place of his twin brother—Cody felt he should have cried. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He tried to conjure up a mental image of the smiling boy from the picture and imagine what he must have been like in life, but his brain kept drawing a blank. There was nothing. No substance whatsoever. And it was then that he realized his mother had been right—Zack was virtually a stranger to him.

And he was a stranger to himself.

Suddenly, there was the sound of car tires coming to a halt against gravel. TJ and Cody both turned to see Bailey pulling in along the side of the road, parallel parking about three feet behind the back bumper of Cody's car. She got out, closing the door and pulling a strand of hair behind her ear simultaneously, and then began walking in their direction.

Her introduction to TJ was swift—a simple "Bailey, this is TJ. TJ, Bailey"—and that was it. Cody didn't want them to talk much for fear they would argue. Luckily, they didn't. They had nothing in common except Cody, so they both spoke only to him.

TJ had been tempted to raise the issue of how Zack died, which Cody still intended to find out, but he'd specifically asked his friend not to bring it up. The last thing he wanted was a full-blown fight breaking out near his own brother's grave.

This wasn't the time for disputes.

"Damn, it's so cold out here," Bailey eventually commented, shoving her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans.

Cody nodded in agreement. "Yep."

There was a freezing wind blowing by, biting at the skin on his fingers, nose, and ears, shaking his bones. It wasn't very fast, or very harsh, but the coldness of it alone was enough to make it irritating. It rustled through the trees, creating a disjointed tune that was both unsettling and distracting.

"Be winter before too long," TJ put in, directing his comment toward Cody.

Again, Cody nodded in agreement, though inwardly he mused at the absurdity of discussing the weather at the graveside of a loved one.

"I _hate_ winter," Bailey stated. "The cold gets to me. It's depressing. People are sadder in the winter time—lonelier."

"People are lonely anyway," Cody remarked. "They're lonely all the time."

Bailey looked at him, unsure of what he meant. "Not if they're with other people," she said.

Cody closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. "Especially when they're with other people."

Bailey wanted to ask him if he was lonely now, but held back. This wasn't the time, or the place.

"Loneliness is a part of the human condition," TJ added. "We never really know anyone, and we can never really get close to anyone—and ultimately everyone leaves us." He looked at Cody. "In one way or another."

Cody looked down, fixing his attention on his brother's tombstone. "I feel so distant," he reflected. "Everything looks different…everything _feels_ different. It's like I'm sleep-walking or something—like I'm…" He paused, not knowing how to finish.

"Only half alive?" Bailey speculated.

"Yeah…something like that."

Bailey nodded in understanding.

Cody grimaced. "I keep trying to picture him," he said pitifully. "I keep trying to put him in some kind of context—in some kind of 'happy' place—but I can't. I always just see him in the ground—the coffin, the worms, the burnt flesh…"

"His body ain't burnt," TJ declared testily.

"What do you mean?" Bailey asked. "Of course it is!"

Cody flashed TJ a don't-do-it look but TJ paid it no heed. "He didn't die in no fuckin' fire."

"And how would _you_ know?" Bailey prodded.

"I know all about that damn fire."

"Well, apparently not!"

"Shut up!" Cody yelled, waving his arms in the air in annoyance. "It doesn't matter!" He didn't even realize that he'd said that until it was already out, but he wasn't surprised. A revelation had just struck him—a profound revelation that contradicted his earlier thoughts and feelings. "It makes no difference whether he died in a fire or whether he got hit by a bus. He's dead. He'd gone. That's it."

TJ gave him a perplexed look. "And who said _we _were going to find out how he died?" he asked accusingly.

"I did," Cody owned up, "but honestly, TJ, is it all that important?"

"Yes, Cody, it is," Bailey proclaimed. "The truth _is_ important."

Cody shook his head, slowly—ever so slowly. "What we need to concentrate on now is what to do. I can't live without him; he's a part of me. And I can't keep picturing him dead."

Bailey considered that. "The photo…" she said. "Think of the photo."

Cody shook his head. "That's not enough."

"Don't you even wonder how he died?" TJ questioned.

Bailey put her hands on her hips but didn't say anything.

"No," Cody replied. Then paused. "Because I already know…I killed him."

TJ and Bailey stared at him incredulously.

"After he died, he still existed in my memory. He still lived _inside _of me…and he always would have." Cody's face scrunched into a mosaic of shame and regret. "But when I had my memories of him wiped he disappeared. That's when he died for real. I killed him. I killed my own brother."

Almost immediately, he burst into tears.

Bailey placed her hand on his shoulder, wanting badly to dispute what he'd just said but knowing that she couldn't. "So what are you going to do now?" she asked him once he'd calmed down a little.

"The only thing I can…" he answered, sniffling. "Try to get him back."

"Lacunar Inc.?" There was nervousness in her voice.

"Lacunar Inc."

"You think confronting them will work?" inquired TJ skeptically.

Cody shrugged. "Guess I'll find out," he admitted. "But I'm betting on yes."

And neither TJ nor Bailey asked him to elaborate.

Together, all three of them stood next to Zack's grave, completely silent, listening to the cold October wind as it whistled a melancholy song through the trees.


	10. Deceit, Thy Name is Heart

**I practically never boast about my work, but I'm very proud of this chapter. It took me just five days to write, plus another to revise and edit. I even procrastinated on my homework to work on it. The words just seemed to flow out of me, and they wouldn't stop. ;)**

**This chapter contains a quote that I think really avid fans of the Sprouse twins would appreciate. Kudos to whoever spots it! (The title of this chapter should give you a hint.) **

**Enjoy. And please leave a review! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**The Suite Life, **_**but Lisa, Reverend Conroy, Dr. Donovan, and TJ are mine. **

_It wasn't supposed to be like this_, Lisa thought worriedly as she pulled out of the Boston Lacunar Inc. faculty parking lot onto the street. It was practically vacant; no one was out and about at 10:00 on a week day morning. Everyone was at work, or in school, or wherever else they had to be, living their mundane lives. Trucking through for prosperity's sake.

_Lucky them_.

Lisa never thought she'd miss the simplicity and tediousness of her life before Lacunar Inc., but anything was better than this. She didn't know what was in her future but she was willing to bet it wasn't prosperity. She'd fucked up. It had been her first real assignment—her moment to shine—and she'd completely fucked it up. Now she had a "possible security breech" on her hands that she was solely responsible for fixing. She'd been called into Dr. Donovan's office earlier that morning and he'd specifically said, "This is your mess, Miss Burke, so I'll leave you to clean it up. I want you to go down to that church on Bennington Street at your earliest convenience and find out what Mr. Martin was doing there. I want to know everything—why he went there, who he talked to, what they talked about...everything."

She'd been tempted to ask how this was her problem. She'd wanted to point out that she had merely presided over Cody Martin's procedure, and had done everything she was asked to do. But she didn't do that because she knew it'd be a bad idea. It was no mystery why she was being sent to investigate. No one wanted to take the blame. Cody was her charge; therefore, if anything happened to him it was automatically her fault.

It was neither fair nor just, but what could she say? The system was rigged. The head honchos looked after them and theirs. Everyone else was expendable.

Lisa didn't know Dr. Donovan too well. No one did. He only invited employees into his office under two conditions: A) he needed them for something, or B) they were in trouble. In the months that she'd been working there, Lisa had only seen him in person twice. He was a pompous man who loved to flaunt his authority, and took great pleasure in intimidating anyone below his status—which consisted of nearly everyone.

He prided himself the head physician for the Boston Lacunar Inc. clinic, much like his cohorts from surrounding clinics. They all had one thing in common, and that was that they practically worshipped the corporation's founder, John Wilkinson. The man was a living legend among them. He was even perceived by some to be "God-like."

"Science calls for no deity," Dr. Donovan proclaimed at a meeting once. "But if it did its God would no doubt be Wilkinson—the things he's done, the contributions he's made...if anyone is or ever was 'the light' it would be him. It's a shame what happened to his son, but if it weren't for that blow we wouldn't be where we are now." Wilkinson's PTSD-affected son had turned into somewhat of a Jesus figure among the science world—a noble sacrifice in the name of learning and benefiting the many. Most of the common people didn't know much about him except that he, like his father, was dead. There was a general fear among scientists that if the citizens were to know the whole story their protests would increase, and that was one thing they were not willing to put up with.

They didn't handle opposition well. They viewed dissent as a preposterous nuisance. The idea that anyone would dispute their endeavors was beyond them. Dr. Donovan wasn't too pleased about Cody Martin setting foot in a church. Not that he had any real grounds to worry (many of their former patients were regular church-goers), but there was something about Cody that captivated the doctor—some aspect about the boy that fascinated him, which was a shock given his overall indifferent attitude.

There was certainly something off-putting about the boy. Lisa remembered the day she first saw him. She'd been led into a semi-lit conference room and shown a video of him talking to Dr. Donovan about the procedure, informed that—should he decide to go through with it—he would be her first real job.

She'd watched carefully, observing as Dr. Donovan guided Cody through one of the labs, showing him the erasure machines, explaining to him how they worked. Cody seemed to be listening intently; he asked so many questions. Though at the same time, he seemed so detached and isolated. And alone.

She remembered Dr. Donovan pointing to a black computer monitor with Lacunar Inc.'s logo at the bottom center and saying, "When the screen is blank, so is the part of your mind that contained Zack."

Cody had looked at him with a perturbed, almost sickly expression. "So he'll be gone...for good?" he asked nervously.

Dr. Donovan braved the faintest of smiles. "That's right."

Cody looked so lost, so unsure. He glanced down and bit his lip. "I won't know about him at all?" his voice had been shaking. "I won't remember any of the times we had together? Even the good ones?"

"Look at it as collateral, Mr. Martin," Dr. Donovan replied. "By undergoing this procedure, you will be forfeiting some pleasant memories. But in exchange, you'll be relieving yourself of some very painful ones."

Slowly, Cody's head rose and he found the doctor's eyes. "But, is it worth it?"

"That, sir, is up to you. In my humblest opinion, I should think so."

When Cody looked at him incredulously, he hastened to explain further: "People are naturally pessimistic; our minds have a tendency to dwell on the negative things and take the positive ones for granted. That fact is universally acknowledged. The media feeds on it, which explains why the news is always so full of tragedies and scandals; we're drawn to suffering. Overall, our brains store far more negative memories than they do positive ones. That's not very satisfying, now is it?"

"Maybe," Cody considered. "But the good memories…even if there're less of them than the bad, they're…they're more than just _good_. Some of them are great. Some of them are amazing." He looked like he wanted to break down and start sobbing. "I loved Zack, Dr. Donovan. I loved him more than anything."

"I'm sure you did, but that does not change fact that he is gone and you cannot bring him back. The bottom line is, you won't miss what you never knew existed."

"He _did _exist, though," Cody said.

"That's subjective."

"How?"

"Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn't, but—"

"He did," Cody repeated.

Dr. Donovan continued as though he hadn't been interrupted: "If you don't remember, then what does it matter?"

And what _did_ it matter? What difference did a memory make? Memories were just flashes of things the brain couldn't let go of—snippets from the past that paraded through the mind like intangible video clips. They were powerful, but too apt to hinder a person. Too many lives were destroyed because of memories. Too many hearts broken. Wasn't it better to just get rid of them—to wipe the slate clean and start over? Wasn't life too short to spend brooding and wallowing in regret and disappointment?

Yes. It had to be. Living like that could never be the answer.

Lisa sighed and turned on the radio. She was tuned into an alternative rock station that was in the middle of playing R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion," which she hadn't heard in a long time so she started to listen:

_That's me in the spotlight, I'm  
Losing my religion  
Trying to keep up with you  
And I don't know if I can do it  
Oh no, I've said too much  
I haven't said enough  
I thought that I heard you laughing  
I thought that I heard you sing  
I think I thought I saw you try_

She almost laughed in spite of herself. She'd never realized it before but that song fit her so well. Loss of faith had been a rite of passage for her in her teens and early adulthood—the point where she'd decided to chase her own dream instead of her father's, and had abandoned the otherworldly in pursuit of the visible and proven.

After the song was finished, the DJ came on: "That was R.E.M. with 'Losing My Religion,'" he announced. "Gotta say, one of my top faves in the alt-rock genre right there—don't get much better than that, know what I mean? Now, for the morning news...we have protestors marching around the perimeter of a Lacunar Inc. treatment center here in Los Angeles, trying to prevent people from entering the building, claiming that they are 'saving these people from themselves.' Sources say eight of these protestors have been arrested, one for spray-painting the word 'antichrist' on the building's side and shouting obscenities at random people in the street. He is currently facing charges on vandalism and disturbing the peace and it looks like authorities aren't going easy on him."

_Wow_. She'd heard about protestors, and had even seen a few herself, but never had she witnessed anything like that. People simply couldn't tolerate change. Every instance of change that had ever been done to society had met with some sort of opposition. It was the price of evolution. Rippling the still waters of sameness was always sure to set off an angry mob or two.

"In other news, a father in Phoenix, Arizona has been charged with killing his 17-year-old daughter in a fit of rage after finding out that she'd joined a church..."

_Good grief! _thought Lisa, appalled.

"43-year-old Carl Webb, administrator of an atheist organization called the Free Think Alliance and advocator of Lacunar Inc., was apprehended yesterday after police received a phone call from his next door neighbor who complained of hearing screaming and what she called 'thumping noises' from Mr. Webb's house. Police arrived just in time to find Carl Webb wrapping the dead body of his daughter into a bed sheet, arresting him and taking into custody a blood-covered hockey stick that is believed to be the murder weapon. It has been reported that Mr. Webb is a profound opponent of religion, having been involved in numerous anti-religion demonstrations in the past decade and expressing hope for his daughter, Heather, to follow in his footsteps..."

Lisa didn't want to believe it. She wasn't the most religious person either—far from it, in fact—but the notion of hurting another person on the basis of religious beliefs was beyond her. Least of all, one's own child. Why were people so cruel? Why were they so intolerant? What was the source of intolerance? Fear? Pride? An inability to cope?

It made no sense.

She turned off the radio, not wanting to hear any more, and drove in silence, accompanied only by the purr of her car's engine and the gravity of her own thoughts.

She thought about her childhood—how she'd lost her mother to an unexpected brain tumor and was left in the care of a strict Christian father who believed himself anointed by God and destined to root out evil wherever he found it. His idea of "evil" had been anything that differed from him. Anything that deviated from his standards of right and wrong. He couldn't handle resistance from anyone...and that included her.

Involuntarily, Lisa took one hand away from the steering wheel and touched it to her upper thigh, feeling the place where the burn marks lingered, where she had been forever scarred by her own protector. Damaged.

Tears sprung to her eyes but she blinked them back. She couldn't afford to cry now; she had immediate business to attend to. She could cry later, when this mess was all taken care of and she had nothing left to think about.

But her father's face stayed with her, all the way to the church.

…

"Are you sure about this?" TJ asked.

Cody sighed. "Yes, TJ, for the tenth time, I'm sure."

TJ eased his hands into the front pockets of his jacket. "Just can't believe you're going through with this," he said. "Imagine what they'll think. Imagine what they'll _do. _These people don't like to be fucked with, Cody. You wanna fuck with them, you need cash—and I _know_ you ain't got that."

Cody was only semi paying attention, fumbling around his apartment for his car keys, trying to compose himself as the thought of confronting Lacunar Incorporated sunk into his head.

"What about Bailey?" TJ went on. "Have you thought about her? Have you thought about what they might do to her? Have you ever thought that this may be what they want? This whole thing is fucking weird!"

"TJ, all of that has crossed my mind," Cody assured him, his voice strenuous. "But the fact of the matter is I don't have any other options. I _have_ to try to remember my brother."

"Look..." TJ approached him, slowly. "I want you to remember your brother too. Believe me, that's not the issue here."

"Then what _is_ the issue?"

TJ took a deep breath. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Cody looked at him, suddenly feeling guilty at the sincerity of his friend's tone, knowing he'd meant every word. "TJ...I don't want to get hurt either," he said, almost whispering. "I'm not doing this to get myself killed, or to get anyone else killed. I'm just...scared."

TJ was stunned. "Scared?"

"Yeah, man, scared. I'm scared for Bailey, for you, for my mom"—his voice cracked with emotion at the mention of his mother—"...for myself. But most of all, I'm scared of not knowing who I am. Remember how I said I felt like I've been sleep-walking?"

TJ nodded.

"It's because of Zack—because I lost him."

"He's dead, Cody." TJ stated, confused. "You can't bring him back."

"That's not what I meant. I've lost him in my _mind_—in the one place I still had him. Death is not the end, TJ. At least it doesn't have to be. Even if someone's physically dead, your memories keep them alive." Cody's face scrunched into a grimace. "But if you don't remember them, they're dead to you entirely."

TJ considered that, knowing full well that Cody had made up his mind about going to Lacunar Inc. and was not going to back down. "Okay, I get it," he gave in. "You won't be yourself again until you remember your brother."

Cody almost smiled. TJ got him. He wasn't the most sentimental guy around, but he understood his position.

"So what do you want me to do in the meantime?"

Cody shrugged. "Stay here."

"_What_?" TJ was incredulous. "That's it? Stay here? You really expect me to do that?"

Cody clutched his car keys, gazing at his friend with a mixture of appreciation and firmness. "There's nothing for you at Lacunar Inc.," he said. "On the other hand, I need you to look after Bailey. I need you to keep her safe."

"Oh great, so now I'm on Bailey-sitting duty?"

"TJ, please..."

"Alright, fine," TJ yielded. "But if you run into trouble, you call me. I mean it."

"Thanks, TJ."

Cody patted his friend on the shoulder.

Then left.

As soon as he was gone, TJ took out his cell phone and started zipping through his contact list. He was going to try to make a quick call.

…

There were butterflies in her stomach when Lisa parked her car in front of the Boston Methodist Church on Bennington Street. She took a moment to stare at it, taking in its architecture. It looked foreboding and ominous, and seemed to glare back at her with an aura of judgment.

"Well," she told herself under her stifled breath, "here goes nothing."

And she got out of the car.

Her progression towards the building was mechanical—a mental "one foot in front of the other" routine that kept her distracted from what she had to do. What was she going to say? What questions would she ask? What if she didn't get anywhere? What if no one remembered Cody, or had any idea as to why he came there? Or worse, what if someone did know, but refused to tell her?

What precautions would she have to take? How far would she be required to go?

She forced herself to suck in a deep breath when she came up the double doors, and then contemplated whether to knock as though she were an uninvited visitor or walk right in as though she were already welcome.

Wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, she went with the latter.

The interior of the church was lush and vibrant, decorated with beautiful paintings depicting significant moments in the life of Jesus Christ. She took a moment to observe them, unable to ignore their brilliance. From inside the sanctuary at the end of the hall, she could hear the voices of people talking and thought it best to wait until they'd finished their conversation.

Besides, she needed a moment to think things through. What was she going to say? Should she be blunt and straight-forward, or should she be subtle and coy? Would it be best to act tough and authoritative, or gentle and cooperative?

She'd never led an interrogation before, but hoped that when the fast-approaching time came, she could wing it.

The voices in the sanctuary died down, and she found herself moving gradually towards it, meticulously counting her footsteps to divert her mind.

When she reached the threshold of the sanctuary, she was passed by three people—two women and one man—who each walked by her without a word. Congregationalists, no doubt. Sheep who couldn't think for themselves. She stepped aside to allow them room, and then ambled into the heart of the church.

She took a moment to inspect her surroundings, noting their grandeur, but soon her eyes fell on an elderly man who was standing sideways in front of the first pew, reading what was most likely a Bible (though could have been something else). He must have felt that he was being watched because he looked up, titled his head, and saw her.

She froze in place, her body rigid, her mind instantly going blank. But then the man gave her a kind smile and she relaxed a bit.

"Hello," he greeted her. "May I be of service?"

She swallowed. _Here goes. _"Perhaps."

He started to come towards her and she instinctually took a step back.

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

"No," she lied. "Why would I be?"

He took another step towards her. This time, she readily forced herself to stay in place.

"My name is Jonathan Conroy—_Reverend_ Jonathan Conroy," he introduced himself. "And you are?"

Before she could stop herself, she told him: "Lisa. Lisa Burke."

Reverend Conroy nodded in acknowledgement. "So what brings you here, Lisa Burke?" he questioned.

"I work for Lacunar Incorporated," she blurted out.

She nearly smacked herself. She should be careful about disclosing that kind of information, especially around religious types like him. Suppose he refused cooperate with her. What then? Should she call for backup (banking on the idea that backup would actually come)? Should she take the offense and warn him not the fuck around with her? Should she plead with him to be reasonable?

There were so many possibilities, and so little room for error.

Luckily, the reverend—though obviously disgruntled—did not act surprised. "Ah, and what is it you want?" he inquired.

"Answers," she told him simply.

"Answers about what?"

"About a boy who came in here yesterday, named Cody Martin."

The reverend acted as though he needed to recall the name, though she alleged that what he was really doing was speculating on how much he would be willing to tell her. "What about him?" he finally spoke, taking the defense.

"I want to know why he came here—that is, if you know...which I suspect you do given that you're a reverend and must spend most of your time here."

The reverend glanced down at the floor, and then back up at her, his expression guilty. "You're right, I do know," he admitted truthfully. "Though I don't know why I should be inclined to tell you."

Now it was time for a little persuasion. "This will go a whole lot easier on you if you just cooperate, Reverend."

Reverend Conroy cocked an eyebrow. "You don't frighten me, Miss Burke," he said.

"It's not my intention to frighten you—merely to be honest and direct with you. My employer, Dr. Harvey Donovan, Head of the Boston branch of Lacunar Incorporated, wants to know the reason behind Cody Martin's visit here. That's all."

There was a silent pause in which Reverend Conroy pondered Lisa Burke's position. It was relatively simple to figure out. Young, soft-spoken employees of Lacunar Inc. didn't just wander into churches of their own accord; there had to be a purpose—an unavoidable objective.

"You're in trouble, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question, but he thought it best to phrase it as one.

"What's it to you?" Lisa asked distrustfully.

"If you're in some kind of a jam, I'd be glad to help you."

She couldn't believe he'd just said that to her. Why would he want to help her? By all logical means, she was his enemy.

"And just how would you do that?" she wanted to know.

"I don't know," he replied. "In whatever way I can."

She crossed her arms, deciding to use this opportunity to bring up her business for coming there. "If you want to help me, you'll tell me what I want to know."

He looked at her apologetically. "I'm sorry, I can't do that."

"Why not?" This was not going well.

"Whatever happened between Cody and me is between us and God. I'm bound by my own conscience not to tell anyone else."

Damn, this man was insufferable! Her job and reputation were on the line, and here he was being stubborn. "Reverend Conroy, please..." she pleaded, sounding more desperate than she wanted to. "I wouldn't be asking you this if it wasn't important."

"I understand," he assured her. "Your position is a difficult one. But I beg _you_ to understand, so is mine."

"How so?" she practically beseeched him. "What's holding you back?"

"God."

"_God!_" she scoffed, exasperated.

"Yes, God," he said. "Though, I don't take it you know much about Him, given who you are."

She was insulted. "Who I am?" she spat. Her blood was beginning to boil. "Let me tell you something about who I am, Reverend. Who I am is someone who knows more about God and the Bible and religion than I ever _cared_ to know! Who I am is someone who was raised by a God-fearing lunatic who pounded into my head that I was worthless! Who I am is someone who has to take Zoloft almost every day just to silence the screaming in my head!" She had no idea where all that came from, but letting it all out was oddly therapeutic for her. She sighed in slight relief, wanted to continue but scarcely knowing what more to say.

"I see," Reverend Conroy murmured, shamefaced. "Forgive me, for making a false accusation."

Lisa calmed down, but couldn't find it in her to forgive him. He had cut her too deeply. If there was one thing she hated it was hasty assumptions.

Reverend Conroy noticed her distress and attempted to mend it. "The only reason I said that was because..."

"I know why!" Lisa snapped, cutting him off.

He nodded sadly. "I'm sorry. I truly am." His voice was so genuine. "Why don't you tell me what's going on? There's got to be some way that I can help you."

"Oh, so you can't tell me anything but you expect me to confide in you? Is that it?"

She had a valid point and he couldn't refute that. Underneath his sympathy and compassion, he had nothing to offer her.

"Then why don't you tell me only as much as you want to tell me?" he suggested.

"And what do I get in return?"

"Isn't my listening enough?"

"What makes you think it'd be enough?"

The reverend was suddenly vexed. "See, that's the problem with people like you!" he exclaimed. "Nothing's ever enough. You keep wanting more and more and never consider what you already have." He looked at her as though she was of a different species, as though she was something he couldn't fathom. "Isn't it exhausting?"

"It's human nature to want, Reverend," she pointed out. "There's nothing wrong with wanting. Everyone wants something."

"True enough," Reverend Conroy concurred, "but it's also human nature to choose. You could be grateful if you _chose _to be."

Lisa sighed, growing tired, wondering how her planned interrogation had managed to go awry. "Look, Reverend, I didn't come here to argue with you over gratitude and human nature. So if it's all the same to you, why don't we just agree to disagree and get down to business?"

"Always business," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "No time for inner reflection."

"I do plenty of inner reflection," Lisa shot back indignantly. "But right now, I need you to work with me."

Reverend Conroy looked at her with heartfelt expression, his gaze baring down into her as though he were trying to reach her soul. "I _am_ working with you."

For a moment, Lisa forgot where she was and why she came, and all she knew for sure was that she was with an honest person—perhaps the first she'd been acquainted with in a long time—and she felt safe.

"I feel it's my duty to get people to look inside themselves," the reverend continued. "I think that's what people need nowadays—to look inside their hearts more."

Lisa shook her head, bringing herself out of her reverie. "Actually, Reverend, I think hearts are the_ last_ place people should look."

Reverend Conroy's expression shifted, not to one of contempt, but to one of pity—one that a parent would likely give their child for not understanding why they did what they did. The look made Lisa's legs buckle, but she willed herself to remain on her feet.

"I beg to differ, Miss Burke," he said matter-of-factly, "the heart is where we find truth."

She waited for him to explain.

"'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also'—Luke 12, verse 34. It's one of my personal favorites. Usually I don't quote Bible texts to prove my point, but I doubt I could express myself better than that." He looked at her in earnest. "Our passion is driven by our hearts, Miss Burke. Our hearts may very well be the only thing in this world we can trust."

"Oh, really?" Lisa challenged him. "Well, how about this: 'The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: Who can know it?'—Jeremiah 17, verse 9."

The reverend appeared, if anything, impressed.

"We can play at this game all day," Lisa stated. "But I'd really rather not. I came here to ask you questions about Cody Martin. Now, either you answer them, or I go back to Lacunar Inc. and send my boss after you. Which will it be?"

The last part of that was a lie. In truth, Lisa had no idea what she would do if the reverend didn't answer her questions. She would definitely report it to Dr. Donovan, but she hated to think how he'd react. Bad news such as that would likely get her fired.

Reverend Conroy was not affected. "By all means, send your boss," he said. "I'd love to meet him."

Lisa wanted to run up to him and ring his neck—to _force_ an answer out of him—but of course, she legally could not do that. And deep down, she knew she wouldn't be able to look herself in the mirror if she did.

There was nothing left for her to say. She'd failed, and would now have to face the consequences.

She walked out of the church thinking about deceitful hearts, human nature, her own future, and Cody Martin.


End file.
